HD 'The Play's the Thing' 2011 HD BigBang
by tigersilver
Summary: Written for the 2011 HD BigBang, this is novel-length. It best summarized as: 'a play within a play, reflected in a mirror'. The Mirror of Erised, to be exact, which doth reflect all one desires. Serialized here and complete at the HDBB web site. Auror Harry and Actor Draco. AU, EWE.
1. Intro

**2011 HD BigBang 'The Play's The Thing!' Intro**

**Author:** tigersilver

**Pairings and Main Characters:** Harry/Draco; Ron/Hermione; Dean/Seamus, Lucius/Narcissa, Luna/Neville/Rolf Scamander, Lavender (unrequited)/Neville

**Summary:** Harry Potter is _not_ happy with the life he's landed in. He's trained to be an Auror, was _invited_ to be one, but now he's considered too valuable—and too powerful—to be allowed out in the field. He faces a life of paperwork and filing, migraine headaches and the petty miseries of being a desk jockey. Draco Malfoy has just returned to his native England from Romania, where for a few years he worked his tail off at the Dragon Preserve. Now he requires a paying position and Malfoys are still somewhat _persona non grata_. Fortunately he has good friends, and among them are three lively Witches: the daft, wifty yet strangely prescient Luna Lovegood, the scheming, fun-loving and irrepressible young Ginevra Weasley and the amazingly brainy and well-organized Hermione Granger. The three Witches have together cooked up a real cauldron-boiler of an idea: forming a troupe of Players, as yet Nameless, for the purpose of presenting theatricals to the Wizarding folk, to entertain and to distract. For_ the play's the thing_, as the Bard once said, and the world is in need of some enjoyment.

**Rating:** NC-17

**Word Count:** 82,000

**Warnings:** Auror/Actor Harry, Actor/Ex-Dragon-Tamer Draco.

**Genre:** Humor, Romance, Smut, Fluff

**Canon:** Alternate Universe (Magical), EWE

**Betas/Beloved Advisors:** lonerofthepack, blueboyfey, demicus, altri_uccelli, phoenixacid, groolover.

**Notes:** This is essentially a play reflected in a play, reflected in a Mirror. Specifically, although the action progresses forward in a linear though episodic manner, both the prologue and epilogue pieces are set outside the main action. The main action occurs a few (two to four) years after the final battle at Hogwarts, in a chronological span. It is implied that the people who are deceased per canon remain deceased, but this is magical, this world. Stranger things have happened. Set in London, at the Ministry, Auror DepartmentHeadquarters, Harry's office; also at Malfoy Manor, in various rooms; at Harry's flat and at the Leaky Tavern in Diagon, and finally at the refurbished Odeon PlayHouse, Edinburgh. There are thus five sets. A number of scenes also take place before the closed curtains of the stage. Er…mentally. You, Reader, function as the archetypal Audience. Applause is always welcome. This **is**: A romantic comedy in four acts. With elements of _farce_. And _pathos_. And…(Merlin help us)_ crack_.

Original inspiration & prompt was provided by vaysh11, ages ago, who wished to see a fic based on DanRad's vid 'This is Real'. After failing horribly at writing decent RP ficcage, the author finagled a way to attempt to incorporate the hilarity and energy of this video ('Broom burn!' 'Please! Put your pants back on!'), the utter drama of it, and in such a way as to protect the sacrosanct privacy of the actual **actors**, who've portrayed our beloved characters for a very long time. The author's many nods of respect are often sly and amused; this makes them no less sincere. Finally, please join the crew in a rousing acapella rendition of Archibald MacLeish's _Ars Poetica_ at the final curtain, in honour of all plays, playwrights, actors and their fellows, who provide us pure pleasure and a beautiful escape from our woes. All errors remaining are solely the author's, by the by. Forgive.

**Scene Setters: **  
>Harry Potter Is Real<br>AS YOU LIKE IT (Shakespeare)  
>THE DOLLHOUSE (Henrik Ibsen)<br>RHINOCEROS (Ionesco) & Pantomime/Commedia dell' arte/The Grey Mare & Twelfth Night  
>THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST (Oscar Wilde)<p>

**Cast (in no particular order): **  
><strong>Harry Potter <strong>… Hero, Auror, Lead Actor (Puck, and assorted roles), Lover  
><strong>Draco Malfoy <strong>… Acting Coach, Ex-Dragon Tamer, Bon Vivant, Man-About-Town, Scion, Lead Actor ('Oberon' and assorted roles), Lover, 'Angel'  
><strong>Lucius Malfoy <strong>… Father, Ex-Convict, Ex-Death Eater, Sometime Curmudgeon, Husband, Host, Adoptive Uncle, Director, 'Angel'  
><strong>Narcissa Malfoy <strong>… Matriarch, Mother, Hostess, Trousers-Wearing-Society-Matron, Ex-Unexpected Heroine, 'Angel', Fan of Gilderoy Lockhart  
><strong>Hermione Granger-Weasley <strong>… Second Witch, Stage Manager, Business Manager, Booking Manager, Hormonal Mum-to-be, Wife, Friend, Fan of Gilderoy Lockhart  
><strong>Luna Lovegood <strong>… First Witch, The Quibbler Staff-at-large, Actress, Available, Object of Desire, Free Elemental, Friend  
><strong>Neville Longbottom <strong>… Hero, Crew, Props Purveyor, Object of Desire, Friend  
><strong>Pansy Parkinson <strong>… Spoilt Princess, Fourth Witch (Adjunct), Society Gal, Co-Stage Manager, Gofer, PR Consultant, 'Angel', Friend, Fan of Gilderoy Lockhart  
><strong>Ginny Weasley <strong>… Third Witch, Ex-Girlfriend, Girl-About-Town, Good Mate, Fan of Gilderoy Lockhart  
><strong>Blaise Zabini <strong>… Actor, Crew, Friend, Businessman, 'Angel', Gossip, Sidekick  
><strong>Greg Goyle <strong>… Actor, Crew, Friend, Sidekick, Proud Father, Businessman  
><strong>Greg Goyle's Wife <strong>… Foreign, Proud Mother of One, Seamstress, 'Angel', Fan of Gilderoy Lockhart  
><strong>Molly Weasley <strong>… Matriarch, Mother of the Horde of Weasleys, Beloved Wife, Fan of Gilderoy Lockhart  
><strong>Arthur Weasley <strong>… Patriarch, Ministry Employee, Friend, Father & Father-Figure, Not a Fan of Gilderoy Lockhart  
><strong>George Weasley <strong>… Adoptive Brother, Proprietor of WWW, Friend, Sometime Actor, Crew, Set Design and Incidental Magics, Special Effects, Uncle  
><strong>Ron Weasley <strong>… Auror, Nervous Husband, Lover, Friend, Father-to-be, Sidekick, Crew  
><strong>Seamus Finnigan-Thomas <strong>… Auror, Husband, Lover, Friend, Crew, Sometime Actor, Fan of Gilderoy Lockhart  
><strong>Dean Finnigan-Thomas <strong>… Auror, Husband, Lover, Artist, Scenery Painter, Sometime Actor, Friend  
><strong>Millicent Bulstrode <strong>… Props, Costumes, Gofer, Special Effects, Incidental Crew & Cast, Fan of Gilderoy Lockhart  
><strong>Lavender Brown <strong>… Head Costumes, Crew & Incidental Cast, Unrequited Lover, Nice Girl, Fan of Gilderoy Lockhart  
><strong>Rolf Scamander <strong>… Actor, Waiter, Unrequited Lover, Incidental Crew-cum-Theatre Consultant, Not a Fan of Gilderoy Lockhart  
><strong>Kingsley Shacklebolt <strong>… Audience, Friend, 'Angel', Fan of Gilderoy Lockhart  
><strong>Gilderoy Lockhart <strong>… played by himself, Fan of Himself, Sometime Guest Director, Deposed  
><strong>Nameless Muggle Interviewer <strong>… Fan of Harry Potter  
><strong>Assorted Aurors<br>Assorted Stage Crew, The Nameless Troupe  
>Assorted Diners, Extras and Milling Masses<br>The Mirror of Erised **… Object of Dubious Magic, this mirror reflects a curious array of possibilities  
><strong>Lucius's Chair <strong>… Object of Semi-Sentient Furniture, it has the personality of a large sight-hound and is quite loyal  
><strong>The Manor <strong>… Ginormous Object of Sentient Domesticity, this house is actually a functional home and, like many a **real** home, it harbours its secrets.


	2. PrePrologue

HD 2011 BigBang 'The Play's the Thing!' PrePrologue

PrePrologue. Circa 2002-2003. The Odeon Theatre, Edinburgh, Opening Night for the Nameless Troupe's production of Shakespeare's '_A Midsummer Night's Dream_'.

The curtains are closed currently and ushers are still seating the latecomers. We see familiar faces and figures: Kingsley Shacklebolt and his wife, the professors of Hogwarts, including Flitwick, Pomfrey, Hooch, Hagrid and of course McGonagall. Childhood and school friends are there, with their extended families; a smattering of red-cloaked Aurors rush in late as a straggly group, twittering excitedly. The Press is well represented, as well, by Rita Skeeter and Mr Lovegood and a wide-eyed staff reporter from Witch Weekly, amongst the many wizarding publications. A few Muggles are scattered about: Hermione's parents, Dudders Dursley (stuffed into a suit), and armed with his girlfriend Hannah Abbott, and various Squibs, including Harry's dear old nosy neighbour, Mrs Figg, who flourishes a playbill with great style.

The murmuring audience is greeted with an opulent theatre setting, circa the Gay Nineties. Gilt and scarlet abound. There are chandeliers and swags; there are cherubs in cornices. There are box seats and there are velvet ropes to keep them private. The seats are immensely comfortable and the crowd settles in with a collective sigh, clutching tumblers of various drinks and snacky, sticky finger foods—and of course, their playbills. Tiny figures dart about in the wizarding photos contained within—most notably one Harry Potter, who dashes off to Draco Malfoy's frame every other moment, chattering silently but excitedly. And some of the audience carry opera glasses atop carven folding sticks; a few of the exceptionally elderly present are laden with huge ear trumpets.

When the house lights blink thrice and then blip out, lowering abruptly, there's a barely contained 'whoosh!' of anticipation exhaled from everyone's lungs. It's to be a lengthy showing but no one seems to mind, particularly, not even the younger set, such as Teddy Lupin, accompanied by his redoubtable grandmother, Andromeda Tonks. There are few other children, though, and a wise Andromeda has come prepared with a censoring charm, for this play is really for adults only.

The curtains are closed tight, neatly swathed in ordered furls of fabric. They remain so, even when a single gel spot comes alive with blinding brilliance, focused upon a single figure, lounging by an ornate cast iron lamppost—the sort that requires gas or, rather, a lasting charm, to run.

It's the casual spin of the actor's wand that catches the eye at first: spin clockwise twenty, spin reverse ten, spin clockwise twenty—never-ending, the nervous motion draws the eye like lightning striking the heart of a plain.

Standing quietly at ease upon the stage is a young man, in his mid-to-early twenties, with very dark hair—black, actually—and not too long, with something of a style to it, but a bit ruffled, nonetheless. He is clad in a Muggle-style green t-shirt (sloganed in giant silver lettering 'Slytherins _Do_ Suck! Best House Ever!') and much-washed denims; he wears simple crepe-soled shoes and he's one hand sort of tucked into a front pocket on his jeans, as if it might slip out at any moment. His hips are cocked forward as he lounges back, shoulders balanced against the gaslight; he's very much at ease on this stage, apparently—as if he were born to tread its antique floorboards. And he's not a bad looking chap; no, not at all. Not tall, really, but not completely shrimpy, either, the young man gives off the air of being just a tad—a wee hint, this—of yet being slightly larger than life. He's a bit cute, and a bit fit, and he seems increasingly familiar to the waiting audience…who, as a group, grow increasingly perplexed by the youth's continued silence.

Why is it he says nothing? Aren't plays supposed to be all about the talking?

Oh, and there's a scar on his forehead but it's difficult to make out, being obscured by makeup and a few errant locks of his fringe.

The audience continues to await action; tension builds until it could be sliced and eaten with Marmite. They've been accustomed to expect declamation when presented with such staged moments. In this case, though, there's not a sign of that. With little else to do, they look more closely at the actor.

The most striking single characteristic of this possibly familiar young man is actually a lack. His eyes are _**not**_ green. Not emerald, not malachite, not viridian, nor olive, nor any shade that arises from the mixture of blue and yellow upon the colour wheel. This doesn't detract in any way from the loveliness of their gaze, their formation, and the set of them in his skull—his eyes are one of the young actor's best features, along with his air of spry energy and that seething, boundless interest he projects—nor does it in any way reduce the intensity of his expression. For all that he waits so casually, he's still quite visibly poised upon the brink of taking some momentous action. If this actor were to be an animal—or an Animagus—he'd be a bird or a feline, absolutely. It wouldn't surprise a single soul if he were to suddenly leap into the air or perhaps skitter sideways up the venerable curtains.

"Potter!"

Clearly, the _other_ young man—he who is rushing in from the wings in a pale-haired swooping flurry of limbs and traditional wizarding robes—seems to have drawn the same conclusion. "Potter, what in Merlin's name _are_ you up to?" he demands furiously. No—not angrily; merely impatiently, as though his fellow actor is patently known for this sort of thing—this 'being up to something'—and that's a given. A given, too, that he, this latecomer, of all the people in the world, must be kept first advised.

He's the taller of the two by perhaps two or three inches; enough so that that the first young man is forced to lift his chin to meet the newcomer's demanding gaze. The second gentleman is very familiar indeed. Everyone knows him, or of him, and they greet his entry with a collective intake of breath.

This one's as handsome as the devil and remarkably well dressed, in a rather unique manner. He wears a flapping robe over Muggle pleated trousers and shirt of elegant, expensive cut, and his grey eyes practically snap with brilliant impatience. He's blond, and it's a shade that is peculiar to only a few wizarding families. Unusual, if one will, in a world that is built solidly on the foundation of Odd.

"Potter!" he repeats, when the first young man only blinks at him, lips parted but issuing no sound. "Harry, I know you're on about _something_, something likely very bloody irregular, too, so don't bother to rack your feeble excuse for a brain to come up with a fib for my sake," he warns. "I shan't believe a word you tell me anyway. So?_ And_?" He taps a foot, impatiently. "Where _are_ you off to this fine day and what _are_ you about, Potter? Come _on_—spill! I'm not having this secondhand!"

Potter—the first young man is most evidently Potter, _the_ Harry Potter; (_and who is kidding whom and of course it is, dearie!_...or so some of the elderly members of the audience twitter giddily); and one of the famed personages the vast majority of the audience have queued up for ages and paid good Galleons to see in action—Potter grins up at his newly arrived companion. Clears his throat gently in a diminutive cough and shrugs a single cotton-outlined shoulder, all the while spinning that equally familiar wand of his—forwards, backwards, in little loops. Incessantly, and in an annoying fashion, considering the sizzling glare the blond man spares it.

"Stop that, Potter. It's annoying," Draco orders. "Now, tell me. What's up? What are you planning? Because you are—don't hide it."

"Er…nothing, really. Why?"

The blond man turns his glare from the irritating wand to a blandly innocent Potter-face. He hustles straight up to his shorter co-actor's toes and grabs at his t-shirt fiercely, crumpling it and pinning him up against the metal column of the lamppost quite firmly. But not quite hard enough to bruise, mind.

"You're up to no good, aren't you?" he demands in a rush, in a cultured voice that reeks of heavy suspicion. The lowering of blond-hued eyebrows only adds to it. He's a study in pale arrogance as he narrows his glassy, glittering eyes and quirks his fine manly lips in a practiced sneer. The audience murmurs; they've come to see this, just as much as they've come to see Harry. "I can tell; not an idiot, you know? Straight away; you're a bloody open book. Picture book, rather. Out with it. Tell me, then, and get it done and over with. You know I'll ferret it out of someone even if you don't. Mayhap your Weasel—he's worse than you at concealing shit."

It's a clear and obvious threat and Potter widens his not-green eyes in response, shifting back, as if to twist away from his attacker's insistence. But he doesn't manage that; the action's aborted, and he settles into Draco's hands just as casually as he leant up against the lamp previously. Some anonymous person in the audience giggles at the pronounced roll of his not-Potter eyeballs, quite loudly. And is promptly—loudly—shushed.

"Er?" Potter steadfastly maintains his air of injured innocence, even as he's all shifty-eyed and a little strange with it. There's a growing murmur of query as to why he's not quite as he should be; _is it a device?_ _A visual pun? These actors—they are always playing about!_ Or so the self-acclaimed critics amongst the seated mass ponder. "Ah. Why would you _ever_ think that, Draco?"

He bats his black lashes theatrically; he tilts his cleft chin charmingly…and now the audience can see clearly how the tall blond wizard leans urgently into Potter, shoving ever closer to his shorter person, as if drawn there by a huge magnetic force, and entirely unable to resist. Without a single word, Potter ceases any sign of any struggle, not that he's been. They continue to collide, the two bodies, and it's clear at least one of them is rather turned on.

There's a reason why one of the actor's godchild is suddenly blinking in confusion behind a magical censoring charm—this play is decidedly not for young children! To be certain he's distracted, his grandmum hands Teddy a small stash of playthings: an Auror action-figure, a miniature broom.

No…_both_. The staged sizzle is mutual. Potter's jeans are rather tight 'round his arse, for all their obvious age. They cling to his hips and thighs—it's clear Harry's no slouch when it comes to exercise. There's a giveaway bulge at the wrinkles of the crotch area, and the sharp-eyed have been waiting ages to spot it. When they do, a whisper (nearly breathless, like a rising heat wave off hot tarmac) spreads though the seated group like wildfire. A counter gasp of scandalous shock quickly follows.

There's a moment of pregnant silence, extended. One beat—one count of a thousand—two. Three.

Hips thrust, minutely, at first, irregularly, then sliding into an easy glide. They've met and matched many a time, or so the _Prophet_ tells its readers in nearly every Sunday's 'Heard About the Alley' column. Often there's pictures to accompany and that's a treat. More than one barely-of-age witch and wizard are in attendance solely because they consider the two actors to be incredibly, edibly appealing, physically. What they know of history could be slotted neatly into the circumference of the head of a pin, but no worries. Wizarding folk like their plays bawdy and this one promises to be so.

The wand in Potter's hand ceases its lazy spin gradually as two pairs of eyes—one a known grey, the other a rather unexpected light-blue shade, tinged with hazel—meet, cling and then converse volumes; not one single sound is audible from the stage—or elsewhere in the huge, echoing hall of the restored Odeon, other than the susurration of people breathing, as they carry on a silent dialogue the waiting audience can only imagine.

Before it drags on that last exquisite second too long, ruining the moment, the blond actor up on stage stomps a well-heeled foot nearly into the floorboards smartly, snorting.

"Bugger!" he exclaims. "_And_ bother! Fine, then—don't tell me, but then don't come crawling to me when the bloody Obliviators show up at our door, asking after you, Harry!"

"'Kay," Potter agrees equably, and only barely bites back a peeping, expanding grin. He's pleased and doesn't everyone know it now? They grin, too, most of them...and so does Draco, reluctantly. "I won't, then. So there."

He pokes the veriest tip of his pink tongue out, but only to moisten dry lips.

"Grrr!"

That provokes an instant growl and the blond man, positively identified as 'Draco', not that he wasn't well spotted from the very get-go, crowds Harry Potter straight up to the lamppost, practically squashing him betwixt and between.

"Dr—" the one called Potter begins, but he's not given the chance to continue. "Wait!"

Draco snogs Harry, his perfect teeth grinding and his jaw line flexing with frustration as he goes into it, and the muscles of his arms bunch creases in his shirt and over-robe as he yanks his companion that one last millimetre nearer yet. It's a matter of degree and how to ratchet it up, really. He seduces him easily enough; Harry's eager to respond in kind.

"—ulp!" Harry gurgles. His not-green eyes are rolling back in their sockets; Draco's grey ones are intense and lit up to a dazzling brilliance from within. "Ngh-_umm_!"

This initial physical moment is not so much defined as a decent snogging as it is a distinctly randy prelude to outright vertical shagging—in public—but neither participant seems to be particularly bothered by that. They're actors, first and foremost, and they're public figures—celebrities; and this isn't really so unusual that it should cause a scene.

The audience feels mostly smug; they're in on it all, having kept up with the dailies. This is candy, and dandy, and something they were hoping to see, albeit intense.

"Idiot!" Draco rejoins, pausing between devouring bites. "Be still, you!'

He makes it so, immobilizing Harry as best as he's able, but Harry's wiry, and Auror-trained. He's also very athletic—clearly, they both like that trait, as Draco is as well. It explains how they've nearly climbed into each other's pants, though.

"Mmm…" Potter groans, after another long wet moment. He squirms in Draco's arms, one denim-clad leg nudging upwards inexorably and clamped against a wool-trousered hip, rumpling the expensive robe. His t-shirt's rucked under his armpits from where Draco's dragged at it with fingertips; there's pinkening marks where Draco's manicured nails have dug in Harry's ribcage. Draco's jaw is damp and glistens in the spotlight; he swipes at it absently and dives straight back under.

The audience squirms as they drink all this in, as one, and some members begin to fan themselves furiously with their parchment programs. This is_ not_ classical Shakespeare they're watching here—this is most definitely a scene lifted lock, stock and barrel out of some other play. Or perhaps a porno—and that's alright, really. Wizarding folk have a rather healthy respect for sex, the currency of Mother Earth.

"Oh….yes…yes!"

Harry moans, and he's not alone in that. Draco hisses and whimpers—or rather, emits small sounds of pleasure made faintly audible. It's the audience that's moaning louder than either of the actors, just a bit, and fidgeting a great deal more than they'd been when this herculean snog began. Knickers are likely growing damp with every passing second; certainly the temperature inside the magically cooled hall has risen sharply.

"Damn your eyes, Harry!"

Draco grinds out a nasty imprecation when he finally pulls back, though only just enough to allow his very willing captive to pant loudly, sucking in air through flaring nostrils and sighing it away with open mouth. Both concentrate on catching their breath for a moment, and then Draco swallows hard, long throat working, and pulls a face at his fellow actor, his mobile features visited with a long-suffering but not entirely displeased expression. He seems resigned, much as if Harry's spent the last few moments convincing him of the pros of some unspoken argument instead of kissing the daylights out of Draco in return.

"Oh?" He blinks, diverted. "And what did you do to them, anyway?" he asks, clearly as an aside. "They're all…funny."

He's greeted with a blank stare, slightly dazed, and proceeds to provide his fellow actor with a restorative jiggle.

"Your eyes? Not green? Those Muggly contacts, Harry, or just a spell?"

"Oh!" Potter's surprised, and then a bit shifty, glancing here and there with the eyes in question, not quite meeting the direct and searching stare of his companion. "Well. Yes. About that—y'see, I—well, I had an interview just now and—it was Muggle, and, ah—"

"Oh, don't bother," Draco sighs wearily. He presses a meditative, considering kiss to Harry's parted lips and draws back to regard him. Several members of the audience squeal, but it's not disruptive…or, not so much. "Tell me after, when you're through with whatever mischief it is you've managed. Promise, now."

Harry's eyebrows rise in silent question. He opens his swollen lips as if to protest, but Draco shakes his head wearily.

"No, no! it's not that I'm not curious, either. It's only 'cause I don't think I can stand to hear anything else upsetting at this very moment. All Hades has broken loose at home. You know how Father is."

Harry hesitates—and then nods, finally, with the tiniest of sympathetic smirks.

It's clear that a confession—later, after whatever it is Harry's up to is fully over with and past history—will come easily enough, just by the way Potter's face creases into a giant, overwhelmingly friendly grin. He's alight once more, a torch of mischievous spirit, burning sulphur-brilliant in the cage of his lover's arms, and he's apparently more than willing to cooperate with Draco…just, not right at this particular moment. But Draco seems to realize this, too, and there's no tension. His bout of quick impatience is blown over, and both are left only to indulge in a bit of heavy petting.

The audience fans itself meanwhile furiously with the playbills and there's quite a bit of quaffing of chilled beverages. It's a heated few moments, up there on stage.

Which they're clearly enjoying, too—the actors, that is.

The audience sighs blissfully. It's rather nice when two people rub along. 'Course, rubbing creates sparks, but then it's all about drama, isn't it—a play? A few chuckle appreciatively, as well. Likely they've been there, done that, and know the nuances of a spot of dirty dancing (politely known as 'compromise') very well.

"Promise, then," Harry replies eventually, and there's a hint of steel to it, and the clear implication he'll be following through, come what may. "You'll listen quietly the whole way through without flipping your lid, Draco."

"Bloody hell," Draco sighs, with one last long contemplative look at the gamine face upturned to his. "And bugger all, while we're at it, but you're a handful, too, mate." He sighs again, making a production of it. "Bugger _this_. What have I ever done to deserve it?" he casts his eyes up to some invisible _deus ex machina_, but then instantly gives it up as a bad show. "Well? Kiss me, then," he orders, frowning. "Want another before you go rushing off. And yes, of course—I'll listen. What d'you take me for?"

"Mmm."

Harry goes up on tiptoe, hands firmly curled about Draco's shoulders, and does as commanded, ever so gently, like a benefice or a blessing, squarely on the firm damp of Draco's lips. Then the corners, and then the length of throat below.

"I'll take you," Harry purrs, "and gladly."

Draco's eyes close ever so slowly, the pale lids heavy, and he's enspelled. Visibly.

"Love you," Harry whispers. Closes his eyes as well as he slides his open mouth deliberately down the length of Draco's front, trailing lips across every part of his chest and abdomen, thighs and one very faintly dark stubbled cheek in contact. His knees bend and bow as he crouches; spring taut as he rises back up. "Love you," he says again, and Draco's face is both twisted and slack, falling into an expression of pleased wonder…which then segues just as quickly into outright pleasure—with a distinct flavour of Malfoy assurance. "Love you…"

The audience—the ones that aren't still gasping over the implications of Harry's tongue's languorous visit to various exposed bits of Draco Malfoy—is grinning right along with him. It's a quiet little party, this; a festive event, even if it's all removed a pace away from them by the shield of the stage.

Because they are_ acting_, are they not?

"…Likewise."

Mayhap it's not just 'acting' but that Muggly Method Acting the audience is seeing; a newfangled way of going about it, yes—but, oh, so effective!

The audience is deathly silent as the final echo of that deep croak fades away, muffled by swags of velvet and dense theatre carpeting. As is Draco, as he returns Potter's kiss with the precision of a professional ballet dancer, but then clearly he requires no carefully rehearsed dialogue to express what's bubbling up, as if from an overflowing cauldron, from his quite probably just as elegant interior. It's all inherent in his face, in the curve of his spine, in his revealed nape as he bends closer to strew touch and desire and love-in-action baby kisses over the willing planes of cheekbone and brow. Scarred brow. That, at least, like the hair, remains very recognizable.

It's time for action—no more words are needed. Nor wanted, either.

It's contained within Draco's hands, where they clutch, as it is in the pads of Harry's curiously delicate, lingering fingertips, curling and grasping, feather-light and determinedly clasping as a kitten's claws. It's evident in shared stance and symbiotic body language and stagey business and not even the faint swell of the unseen orchestra's opening music detracts nor adds to the ambient cloud of emotion, caught up between two actors—two people—poised upon one bare square of stage space, trompling toetips in their treacle-slow haste to climb into one another. Farther, deeper, _in_.

The kiss the magically bright gel spot highlights—and then dissolves ever so slowly away from, till the curtain is cloaked in darkness and the audience is left blinking, struggling to adjust their many eyes—is long and tender and infinitely slow. And time on stage is an exaggerated element in any case: each moment could be a span of hours, theatrically. The memory of it, just post, is reminiscent of butterflies dancing through the air as they mate—fragile like that, and as ethereally airy. It is so refulgent with sincerity, the emotion is nearly palpable, as if it could drip from the two actors, were it corporeal, and flood over the footlights. And lastly, it is passionate. Restrained, perhaps, but passionate as life itself is, telescoped into one small series of everyday actions.

It's a kiss, a snog: nothing more, nothing less. Was a kiss. It could mean anything, imply many things, and it is wide open to interpretation…therein lies the beauty of it.

When the house lights come up again, very briefly but bright as noon's brilliance, the two actors and the lamppost have vanished as if they never were. Without a pause, there begins a second series of timed blips to indicate the start of the_ real_ action—the play they've all come for, this nameless sea of viewers…and it's as though everyone awakes from a particularly pleasant daydream. They blink blown-wide pupils and they shift, juggling tumblers and cartons of popped corn, waxed paper-wrapped sweets, chocolate-covered nuts and dried fruits, frogs, malted balls and fiddly serviettes, playbills—their own belongings, too. Shifting to find a comfy state for the long haul, shuffling feet, settling in for a second time, this.

And too, the couples present adjust how they sit, leaning that scant smidge nearer one another, pressing the smooth slopes of shoulders. Strangers exchange knowing glances, and not a few fair number of the audience is a bit flushed about the edges and slipping fingers 'neath suddenly tight robes' collars.

For they've played witness to—nay, they've been drawn into—a private moment, and it was quite incredibly real. No faux theatrics, no false noses—no makeup nor costuming, and barely a single prop. Not much of a meaningful dialogue, either.

But no matter. Let it pass. It's not important, now. The real play's yet to come, after all. It was just…rather spiffing to have it so prefaced, that's all. A reminder of what's truly important…

…For who has _not_ kissed, _not_ touched, in such a way as to give love? To receive love, in reply? And who, amongst the audience, who is there who has_ not_ wished nor dreamt of such things, such moments, fleeting, fondly, sweetly, and allowed the light inherent to open up all sorts of dark inner spaces? The closets of the mind, aired out and filled with cleansing light—the joyously simple spell of 'Lumos!', nearly always the first ever learnt by a wizard.

The play's the_ thing_, really. Gifts intangible are contained within: light and sound and action, brought together in one place, intersecting—shared.

_The play's the thing._


	3. Prologue

**HD 2011 BB 'TPTT' Prologue**

_**Actual**_ Prologue: 'This_ is_ Real'. Circa 2008-2009, Wiltshire, Malfoy Manor. Draco & Harry's Suite, the Parlour.

Hermione Weasley, Stage Manager, Business Manager, all 'round captain of the very small Industry that was wizarding play production, was admittedly a tad bit tipsy. The icy-cold glass the house-elves had spelled to magically refill was a slender fountain well of cheer in her hot little palm as she wove her way through corridors; the endlessly intriguing rooms of Malfoy Manor were ever more fascinating when one was breezy sheets to the wind and feeling rather pleasantly floppy amidst the gentle zephyrs.

She'd discovered alcohol was extremely useful when attempting to drown out the echoes of her own remembered screams. Malfoy Mansion had not always been so benign as it was this particular evening. But that was years ago, yes, and Draco—though a bit of a twat occasionally—was no threat to her. Gods, no! Draco was a bloody angel, rather—as were dear old pesky Lucius and the rather delightful Narcissa. Too, she rather had to be present and presiding: it was the post-season fete for the cast and crew and she'd been one of the primary coordinators, as always. Hermione: near-resident Minerva of the Manor.

But alcohol did mitigate unwanted memory…and the Manor was really quite beautiful, in purpose and execution. And _huge_—she'd been walking about it for quite fifteen minutes and hadn't seen the same rooms twice!

Some rooms, of course, were mutable…as were their contents and furnishings.

The one she at last fetched up in (after a Cook's tour of the kitchens, the scullery, the three 'best' receiving parlours and the various games rooms, all four of them), was cozy and comfy. She wandered in on a lurching whim, tacking gently left and right in her inebriated stroll, and came upon an enormous divan, quite the size of a small country. Overstuffed and capacious, it was done up in a charming shade of dark burgundy suede. It begged one to lounge upon it, that divan. It positively reeked of comfort.

Startlingly enough—or not, as he'd disappeared from the madding crowds some time previously—it already contained one Draco Malfoy and he was in the midst of laughing his well-bred arse off, pointing at the Muggle plasma telly stuck on the wall and gasping with not very well stifled well-bred mirth. Draco was of course a regular chap but he still had his airs and graces about him, despite Harry's perpetual motion of ' rubbing off' on him.

"Hurrr!" Draco choked on both his bubbly and his own giggles, practically falling over where he sat. "Tha'—tha' _idiot_!"

No airs at the moment, though: his patrician pale face was pink with drink and wreathed with lines of pleasure; he seemed to be quite overtaken with what went on in the Muggle box, and hilariously so.

_She'd_ thought he was with the others, in the South Wing Ballroom dancing the night away, but apparently not. But then Harry was known to be belayed at the Ministry in a last minute meeting with Kingsley, so it made sense, rather, that Draco had withdrawn from his duty to company for a few minutes. Draco was always at a bit of a loose end when caught without a Harry about him…it was rather sweet, that. And of course Luna, Gin and Mrs Malfoy were more than capable of hosting in his absence. Even the poker-up-his-arse senior Malfoy was on stage, circulating genially. If his bloody Chair mashed a few Muggle-born feet, oh well—that hardly mattered. His larders and cellars were still wide open to all the gathered Troupers.

"Her'what, M'foy?" Hermione inquired genially, happy to horn in on whatever it was that had Draco reduced to literal tears of laughter. She jabbed his loosened collar in a matey fashion. 'S'gong'onnn?"

"Him!" Draco pointed, his fingertip wavering before Hermione's slightly fuzzy field of vision. He reeled back a short distance to blink up at her. "'E's a little blighter. S'Harry, 'Ermione. See?"

"Ooooaaah?" Hermione did not hide her bewilderment well when on the sauce; her mouth dropped open. She had another glug from the magical glass to fill it. "Is?"

"Him!" Draco seemed agitated. "The idjit! Look'a 'im. He's fucking about to do a Wronski off that bloody sofa! See 'im? No—wait, hang on. What—his pants? What's the little wanker up to, now?"  
>"Nrrh?"<p>

Hermione turned to her gaze full on the screen of the busy telly, plopping genteelly (except for the slight starboard list) onto the plump cushion by Draco's slouched body. She promptly leaned into his arm and snuggled up, feeling vastly friendly and just chock-full of good will.

After all, Draco was oh, _so_ handsome to gaze upon and fit besides, plus he made Harry a happy camper… _and_ caused Hermione to laugh aloud more often than not, even here. He was clever—_she_ was clever. He was the only other person she knew of—excepting Headmistress McGonagall—who'd actually read Hogwarts, A History from cover to cover. And liked it. And finally—because three was a magical number; well four, maybe; that worked too—she could relate quite nicely to Draco's rather decidedly anal nature. He was actually so very on top of every detail he'd taken to actively convincing people he wasn't, not at all—that he was a free spirit, like Harry. In fact, it was really an act, but an ongoing one. And Hermione could relate. They were of a kind, peas in a pod, she and Draco. And she'd developed a certain….fondness…for his pure-blood person, rather. Also—lastly—my, but there were any number of reasons for matiness, weren't there? His choice in furnishings was absolutely divine: the divan was the most comfortable she'd ever collapsed upon, bar none. This being his and Harry's withdrawing room she'd fallen into.

"Meh?" she asked, attempting to raise both her eyebrows and her glass in a friendly fashion, indicating interest. "'Arry, you mean? That 'im, Draco? Looks like 'im."

She pointed a free pinkie finger at the plasma telly. It was a bit difficult to make out 'xactly what was going on in its frame. The brunet bloke—seemed very familiar, him—was babbling on at a mile a minute and bashing his hands 'round all the while—just as Harry would. About Quidditch—just as Harry would. He was a bore about Quidditch, Harry. And off screen was a voice, a very BBC narrator's Voice, who seemed to be prompting the energetic young man by asking question after question. And then begging him not to shed his pants—of all things!

If she strained her bleary eyes and cocked her ears at just the proper angle, Hermione could make out a phrase or two in the continuous jibber-jabber: something about _reality_ and _Quidditch_ and mayhap _footie_ and…well, the remainder was lost in translation. And something about how Harry had realized he was Harry somewhere in the Fourth Book—whatever that was—which was puzzling, but not that important.

'Cept that the chap who was familiar was insistent that it was_ real_. Whatever it was, it was **REAL**. This, Hermione did indeed take in, even though the haze of cumulative layers of chardonnay.

She turned a wobbly chin toward her seatmate, silently enquiring.

"See?" Draco demanded, waving a wild arm in the direction of the telly screen, where Harry (was that Harry? Looked like Harry, didn't it though? But _not_, either) was zooming about, leaping on and off a much smaller divan done up in a lighter fabric. Yakkiing it up, too, to some invisible man or t'other. "See 'im?" Draco was quite energetic with the one hand, whacking it about heddlessly. "He's a barmy sod, this one. Talks to bloody anyone, 'Arry does. Me, Dad—the elves. Muggles. Centaurs, even. S'why'I'love'im….Tha'. 'E's no clue. Not a single one. Plee—plebian!"

"Whazza'?" Hermione wasn't following. "'Arry is?"

"Friendly chap. 'Arry." Draco nodded wisely. "Likes people. Odd, tha'." He tipped his tumbler in the direction of the chap on the telly. "More power, eh? Need it, yeah. Them."

"Hum?" Hermione watched as the chap in the telly jumped about and began bounding around the smallish room he was inhabiting. Still no view of the Narrator, though. For Hermione had still no clue as to why Draco was transfixed by his telly when there was a full-blown rollick of a cast party taking place in his ancestral pile. "Nn?"

"S'nterview," Draco grunted, engaging the speaking hand in a new species of wave: a sideways flop of sorts-Merlin knew what that meant, Hermione wondered. Distaste, maybe? He didn't like the chap on the telly? For he certainly liked Harry…but that wasn't Harry, though he did seem awfully familiar, even when one was…feeling a bit feeble-minded. "Press, Granger. Pub-publicity!"

Her mate took a messy slurp of his drink, sloshing a spray over Hermione's hairdo. He never normally sloshed, so he was likely somewhere near the same tranquil plane upon which Hermione existed. This pleased her; everyone should feel as good as she did at the moment.

"Looks like it. You know? Back and forth, back and forth, like badminton?" That made no sense at all to Hermione, but hey, _whatever_. It_ was_ a party.

"Ah." She nodded wisely, peering at the telly again. Oh! _Now_ she understood. The man who reminded her—strongly—of her mate Harry was talking with the Muggle Press man. Was the off-screen Announcer's voice she was hearing, over and over, as well as maybe-Harry, for Draco seemed to have the whole episode on some sort of continual replay. Sort of patronizing, actually—that Voice…Hermione rather wished the Harry_-not_ Harry man would hex him.

'Cept that wasn't Harry…er, was it? That was a Muggle man, wearing Muggly clothes, and regular old Muggles didn't go about hexing people; they _couldn't_.

…Unless they weren't Muggles at all. This thought set Hermione to bleary pondering. And that could indeed be Harry. Harry was an actor. Harry could also be on Muggle telly, because of the Muggle magic of pre-recording. Though Harry was here, in the Manor, with Draco and with all of them, or would be soon enough—technically—when he was done with his last-minute meeting…which is where he would have been in any event if he were in the Manor anywhere—with _Draco_. Because they two were perpetually joined at the hip and really very bilious-making, they were so in love. And Draco always kept tabs on Harry. Like the sun rising, he did this. Harry let him, too. Liked it.

Ron—good old Ron; lovely Ron—had remarked upon it often enough. "Hermione," he'd say, "I'm bilious. They're canoodling again, the two of them. Make them find a room, please. Rosie's too young to see this."

Hermione nodded happily, wobbly-headed. She agreed with herself, as she so often did, about this point at least. Whatever it was, it was _it_, then. Settled. This _was_ Harry, right there on the telly, which was why Draco was bothering at all, watching Muggle telly in the midst of a Troupe party.

"Silly 'Arry—he's been talking to the Muggles again," Draco scowled faintly, unknowingly confirming Hermione's suspicions. "Spillin' shit they'll never understan', poor sods. Too, too gregarious for 'is own good, 'Arry. Likes to talk; hear his own voice. Gryffindor thing, that. Still…love 'im _still_—love 'im!"

"'Kay…eh?" Hermione perked up at that; Draco was _so_ insistent, she ceased her mindless nodding. "Huh? Wotcher mean, Dra—" she hiccoughed mid-way through—"cooo? Why would he?"

What, Hermione wondered, was all this about Harry and the Muggles? She didn't know a single iota about it—which meant it must be Luna or Gin's idea, having Muggles in on it.

It? Was there an actual 'it'?

Hermione pursed her lips. The girls were heinous, really—always pranking, always up to some nutjob scheme. Pansy, too. For bloody PR. And Luna was completely round the twist, as always. Be just like her to send Harry off to talk to the Muggles, thinking it was a good lark. Or a research project…or some such. Attention, though. People must be made to pay attention.

Draco licked his lips and cocked his chin. "Alrighty there, Hermie? 'Cause I said tha' jus' now. You hearing me, girl? Ears alright?"

Hermione had to admit—muzzily—she wasn't for it. No Muggle bashing—and positively no Mudblood- mentioning. 'Twas verboten. No good—not copacetic. Harry, fr'instance, was half-Muggle and she was _all _Muggle and where the fuck did Draco M'foy get off, pointing fingers at anyone anyway?

She glowered at his upper arm, sulkily, abruptly irked for no reason. Poked it hard with a buffed fingernail for good measure. Thought momentarily about biting down upon it hard enough to leave toothmarks, as Rosie did when she was feeling her mustard.

"'Ate you, M'foy," she growled, making that emotion clearly known. "Stick up your arse." Explaining it. Whatever.

"What, what?" Draco eyed her carefully. He seemed bewildered. "What're you on abou', Hermie? It's 'Arry—are you even awake, Hermie?"

"You prick, Draco M'foy!" Hermione spat out, incensed. By gawds, but whatever was in those Collinses was incendiary! "Mudbloody, my eye!"

"Whoa!" Draco flung a hand up, stopping her. "Not Mudbloods, Hermie. Dirty word—know that. Told Father, too. Keep his trap shut, told 'im. Better do, too. Hex his pants off—oh, ick! Baaaad image." Draco swallowed hard, looking faintly greenish. "Er…why're you bringing that up, now?"

"Ah." Hermione accepted that response fairly easily. She'd experienced a definite qualm, thinking Draco was back to his bad old ways, but this was alright—he wasn't. Just a misunderstanding then. "H'okay, then. Thass'alright."

"Good, good," Draco nodded, pleased, and settled back against the cushy squabs of the couch. There was a brief silence on their part and then he sighed dramatically.

"Yesh." Hermione blinked at him, curious. "Yesh?"

"Him, though—Harry. Potter. Never ge'it, thass'all. Dunderhead, dense, thick—all tha'."

Draco inhaled the last of his champagne, a whole series of expressions flickering across his narrow features. He slipped a matey arm about Hermione to keep her mostly upright, as she was nearly horizontal…and very sleepy.

"Oi!" Hermione objected. She was upright, she was sure of it—it was the world that had tilted, sod the silly thing. "Wotcher?' She didn't need no stinking help staying upright, at least, even if the sofa was very plush and cushy. "Bugger off. M'okay!"

Her seatmate treated her to a stare down the Malfoy nose.

"Merlin! Bellicose, aren't you? Fiece l'il thing."

"Grr!" Hermione growled, both liking that—and not. "Shaddup, M'foy! Stop shaking me!"

"Right, right, wha'ever you say, Hermie," her friend drawled, blinking slowly and taking care to steady her glass for her. Being a seasoned Trouper, he blithely ignored the jab to the ribs that resulted from Hermione's flash of temper and only snickered beatifically when she glared at him: the sound of a happy, happy soul; one happy to be puzzled by the actions of a beloved other; one happy to be a bit foozled by the bubbly, as well. And when he continued to grin at her like some barmy mental patient, Hermione echoed it, all about bonhomie abruptly. She did feel quite nice, really—when the world stayed upright, that was.

"Harry's mental, see?" Draco was talking at her. "For a wizard. Poor Muggly man doesn' stand a chance, really. Never, ever sort the prick—'e's fuckin' confusin'. Talks too fast, says silly shit. Love tha' 'bout 'im."

"Erm?" Hermione blinked. Oh, right, right—it was the subject of Harry, again. All Draco ever really talked about, Harry. "…You do?" 'Course, it required a rather special person to understand the 'specialness' of Harry; they were rare birds, the ones who did. But then it was logical, wasn't it?

"'E's a'numdum," Draco went on. "A proper poozle, 'Arry is." Draco nodded assuredly, as if of the opinion all was now made crystal clear. "Puddle, I mean. What'sit—crossword thingamabob. Righ'."

"Poozle?" New word, Hermione's soggy brain noted, and not one she knew of. _Poodle_? No—_that_ couldn't be right. Harry was no curly French hound with poufy bits at his knees and doggy elbows. _Puddle_? Not likely, either. Er…_muddle_?

"D'you mean 'puzzle', Drac—" She hiccoughed a second time, loudly and unexpectedly, only barely managing to politely cover her mouth with a wayward palm. "Ah! Oh? Oops!"

Draco nodded, all dazzling ice-grey eyes and air of earnestness. "Puzzle, puzzle, puzzle." He grinned brilliantly at the telly screen and the small Harry, sparing Hermione a fast hug 'round her slim shoulders. "Love tha'. Love 'im so much, makes me crazy. Love that 'ee makes me crazy, too. Sod. Weird. Odd fellow. Yannow?"

"Ah," Hermione nodded. She did, yes. "Yesss," she agreed, verbally. "'Ee'is, yesh. _That_."

"Look at 'im go," Draco remarked proudly. "Told me to watch. Said I'd laugh, yeah?"

"Yeah?" Hermione echoed, not really listening. "'Kay."

Yes, Harry was odd. Had always been, in a special-like way. She agreed with that. She was very sleepy, too, all the sudden. Draco was warm and cozy and the divan cushions were quite soft. She could have a little nap, she decided, closing her eyes now that the mystery was solved. It was alright; Draco was merely pointing out Harry's unusual aspects. No problem there.

But Draco, now that he'd landed a companion in his convivial solitude, was eager to talk—at length, just like the little Harry-not-Harry-person was doing on the telly screen. That bloke looked a great deal like the Harry Potter Hermione had known for forever. Though…excepting his eye colour, of course, and the lack of scar, and perhaps her friend Harry wasn't quite so frenetic as this chap was, but he could be, certainly. Then there was the Mugglish air to the room about him—hotel room? Flat? What was Harry doing in some strange flat?

"Eh?" She attempted to zero in on the chap's face; get a better gander at him.

"What?" Draco pinched her. "He's good, yeah?"

"Mmm."

Hermione's brow crinkled in her own sort of puzzlement: was that Harry, maybe under a Glamour, or wasn't it? The young man resembled no one more than that actor who'd played Harry's part in those immensely popular cinema shows, but…all the same, er, what?

"'S'like I never really knew 'im," Draco had started up again and was speaking somewhat meditatively, jiggling his ice in his drink for emphasis, one weather eye fixed on the screen. "All that time, never, ever. Know what I mean, Hermie?"

"Don' call me tha'," Hermione reproved him sleepily, blinking. This was all a bit much for an exhausted, snockered Manager Extraordinaire to take in. Even on a good day—a normal day—Hermione would be a bit shocked to see her best mate appearing on Muggle telly. But—no one addressed her by any horrid diminutives—not even Ron. It was imperative that Draco be corrected immediately; he'd any number of bad habits, Malfoy.

"'M'not Hermie," she announced, struggling to sit up straight and spilling her drink. "'M'Huuurr-my-own-neee! Say it!"

"'Kay. Her-mi-on-eee," Draco repeated dutifully, frowning. He was a bit bloodshot, but not in an unattractive way. They were all a bit red-rimmed, the lot of them, after four gruelling months on the local theatre circuit. And their own Odeon…lovely, lovely Odeon, courtesy on of Draco's bad habits, thanks ever so. Berk could spend some Galleons, couldn't he?

Draco huffed gently, after a countable moment. He upped one of his famous eyebrows.

"Thass' too long to say, you know? Sure you don' want something shorter? I mean, Granger's nice and all. Can say that—used to saying that, really. Graaaan-ger. Granger!"

Hermione shook her head emphatically. She'd kept the Granger, of course, but after all those years of name-calling on the part of this blond pain-in-the-arse, the only name Hermione would readily accept from him was her given. F'real. And it had better be perfect and uncut, so help her Merlin, or Draco would feel the wrath of a few of her more arcane stinging hexes on his fit arse, Harry's honeybunny sweetie-pie or no. Hermione was _not_ having Draco Malfoy butcher her name!

"Her-my-own-nee," she re-stated, enunciating, in case the arse planned on claiming exemption due to inebriation. "Say it! Repeat it after me, Draco—right now!" Bloody amazing, how passion could clear the head!

Draco merely shrugged, but amiably. He seemed mildly bewildered by her but willing enough.

"'Kay, Her-my-on-neee. Tha' alrigh'?"

Hermione allowed that it was by nodding. Her head was beginning to ache slightly. She was thirsty.

"Bu' anyway, 'bout 'Arry?" he asked, hopefully, after a beat, "'cause I wanna tell you. Can I tell you? Her-mi-on-nee?"

"Hhhm-hmm." Hermione hummed her willingness, closing her eyes again in satisfaction. "Mmmm," she agreed. Perhaps someone would come and bring her a glass of water and some painkillers. That would be pleasant. "Tired…"

"'Kay; go to sleep, then. So…er, he's mine, you know? Harry?" Draco was taking extra care to pronounce his aitches; he'd dropped any number so far, likely due to his happily soused state. "Mine-mine-mine."

"Uh…huh."

"Took me a while, thass' state of affairs," Draco confided, nudging Hermione's ribcage gently with a spare elbow. "Hah! State of affairs! Funny! Made a joke, Her-my-own-nee—isn' it funny?"

"Mmm."

"Struggle, um..." Draco tapped his fingers on her arm, gently. It tickled but was pleasant. She smiled sleepily. "Was…is. Differen'. Differen' as two peas, yeah? Inna pod." He flung a hand out, gesturing grandly to everything Malfoy. "Great huge pod, eh?"

"Mmm."

"You really lissening, Her-mi-on-nee?" He peered at her, the frown returning. "'Cause, pardon me, but I don't think you are…really. Wanna a Pepper-Up?"

Hermione nodded vaguely. Then she shook her head. She was worn to the bone but the sound of Draco's voice was nice; it felt like a bedtime story being told to her, same as she would tell her daughter. Not one she'd tell Rosie, mind, due to the naughty bits, but nice all the same.

"Uh-huh. No."

"Right, right." Draco seemed satisfied because he continued. "Won't then—jus' sleep. Anyway, but I bagged 'im, fin'ly." Draco sounded very pleased with that. "S'mine now. Mental, but all mine. M'appy. Proud o'mysel'. You get that, Hermie?"

"Nnnh." She did, yes. What of it? Evreybody got that. "Uh-huh."

"You've got your Weasel, right? Snagged 'him, not like it was hard or anything. 'S'like it took aaages, yeah, but it was worth it, Hermie, right? You 'appy?" Draco carried on, his voice soft with remembrances. "M'appy. Want _you_ to be happy, too, Hermie. Like me, yannow? You're alrigh', for a girl….sometimes."

Hermione's head nearly tumbled off with her nodding: yes, she was happy. For a girl. Happy to be with Ron, happy to have Rosie, happy to know Harry was happy, happy to curl up on this so comfy sofa and listen to Draco Malfoy tell her a sodding neverending love story.

"'M'appy, too." Gods, but the git was repetitive sometimes. "All worth it—he's mine, you know? Mine!" The quiet musings abruptly resolved to ferocity; Draco sat bolt upright and waved his glass fiercely at the telly, where the little Harry was once again threatening the Muggle Interviewer with yanking his pants down. Hermione giggled. "Mine, mine, mine!"

"Urp! Okay, already! Stop tha'!" Hermione gasped, thrown into a graceless heap when the divan picked up on Draco's momentum and sent a rolling wave through the cushions. She squirmed, fighting velveteen-clad sofa stuffing—the cushions were indeed goose down and seemed intent on sucking her in. "Ah-ah-ah! Prat! A little 'elp 'ere!"

"Oh, sorry!" Draco fell back against the squabs and righted her along the way, chuckling as he hauled her upright. The flash of temper was gone as soon as it happened. "Sorry, sorry. Wasn't thinking clearly—din' mean to do that. Alright there, Hermie?"

"Um. You know?"

She nodded gallantly, though the room still swam a bit before her dazzled eyes. On the telly the small Harry lookalike was still bouncing and bounding.

"Yeah?"

"Shaddup now. Sleepy."

"'Kay. Good-oh. Is juss' e's mine," Draco reasserted firmly. "Want everyone to know, yeah? Tha' ee's mine. My 'Arry," Draco banged the couch arm all the sudden, beating it for no reason. "Silly sod, but mine. Took me bloody long enough, what?"

"Mmm," Hermione rubbed her belly; the magical Collins was still sloshing. "Erm. Ah." She belched, but subsided when Draco fluttered a soothing hand at her middle. "Ooooh-urgh!"

"Placidus," he said, and smiled brilliantly at her relieved features. M'fay had always excelled at Wandless. "Better, yeah?" he asked her, winking. "'S'new Charm. Faster 'n Sobrietus; more effective than a Sobering Draught. Keeps the buzz goin', and no mess after. Patented it, jus' yesterday. Like tha', d'you?"

"Yes!" Hermione was quite pleased; all her intestines checked in perfectly well and her headache was gone. "I love you, Draaacooo!"

"Er...thanks." Draco eyed her doubtfully. "Super." He edged away abruptly, stuffing cushions against her side thoughtfully as he went. "I'll, we—I'll just sit over here…now."

Hermione wasn't known for her excess of girly silliness—not like Lavender was, for instance. But…still, she was at once overwhelmed by a great sodding brilliant wave of gratitude: to be here, in this lovely, lovely house, attending this lovely, lovely party, in company with Draco and Harry and all her friends. To be successful, in that the show had been a humungous hit on their first night. And substantially better off, as the take had been copious: all the wizarding world adored the Nameless Players, it appeared—even the critics. To be happy, knowing Ron was off toddling somewhere about, likely just as shit-faced drunk as she, boring the arse off some other poor soul 'bout the Cannons, and little Rosie was safe with Molly or maybe Lucius (oh Merlin! The irony!) and she? _She_ could take a mental load off and be utterly wasted.

"Love ya!" Hermione bellowed enthusiastically, bussing his smooth-shaven cheek. "Love ya, mate." She petted him fondly, what she could reach. She pointed to the screen. "Love ya, Harry. He loves you, too, Drakey—yannow tha', righ'?"

'Cause she did. _He_ did. He loved Harry, didn't he? And he was a funny old git and clever. Like her. Yes.

No—no problems in Hermione's world. Not a single blessed one. For once there was no stress, no wankers in the wings, no headaches in the making—no schedules, budgets or theatrically inclined people making scenes in her office off the Ballroom. Just good friends—happy friends—and a big fucking party to enjoy in a big friggin' mansion in great huge frigging Wiltshire. _And_ Draco Malfoy, beaming at his horribly dear Muggle plasma telly like a silly sod, yakking it up about how much he loved Harry.

Life was remarkably good, actually; Hermione grinned at her kneecap companionably.

"S'beautiful, yeah? You should see 'im in the mornings, Hermie," Draco murmured on without cease, apparently under the impression Hermione hung on his every word. "His bloody hair? Sticks up every which way. And no specs to mar that pretty face of his," Draco nodded to himself. "Doesn't even realize it, how good he looks without 'em. Doesn't believe me when I tell 'im. Says I make it up, to tease 'im. Can you imagine? Herm? Can you?"

"No—no," Hermione mumbled, settling in again and nearly fully re-entered into her cozy doze state; all the while, the little telly wizard jabbered on about…Quidditch again, was it? Broom burn?

"Can't imagine."

Must be. Broom burn, he'd just said, his little telly voice squeaking from the wall. But Draco mumbled and mumbled, sighing like some lovesick dolt over the Harry-inna-box. He's budged over again and busily squeezing the life out of Hermione's shoulders.

"Er…what?" she muttered, hearing Draco's voice fade away in the far distance. "Hmm?"

"Difficult prick, he can be," Draco asserted, his chest rumbling under Hermione's ear. "Bloody well blinkered. Thought he was straight. Thought he was an Auror. Thought he was…was…well. Took me ages. Eons, Hermie. Thought I'd die of fuss-fuss-frus-tray-shun."

"Hmm?"

"To convince 'im. Thass' wha'. Git."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. He's a shit, a dumb one, for all 'e's so all Auror this and Auror that and whatnot special trainin'. Blind as a 'B'livian cave bat—yannow? Those no-eyed ones with the speckles on their snouts? Lovegood was sayin'…" At Hermione's nod, he continued. "Bloody wilful, too, daft bugger. Doesn' listen to me when I tell 'im he's gorgeous."

"Yeah." Hermione could relate. "Yesh. S'true. Never listens, 'Arry. Git."

"Must'a told 'im a million times over, too," Draco continued; seemed he'd never shut up, either. "Every which way I could think of. Bloody Mirror told 'im—but did _'e_ listen? No! _No_, he did not!"

"Git," Hermione nodded sagely. "Double git. Triple git—git, git, git! Shaddup, Draco. Time to sleep."

"Mmm." Draco nodded thoughtfully. "Well, maybe not that bad, Her-mi-on-nee."

"Fit, though."

"Mmm-hmm," Draco's hum was very pleased. "Yeah, he is."

"Loves you," Hermione nodded. "Does."

Draco grinned madly.

"Oh, yes. M'lucky."

"Mmm. Me, too." Hermione agreed. "Lots and lots. Shaddup, 'kay?"

She was—he was—they were. She yawned, no longer able to stifle the languor that had been stealthily creeping upon her for the last few minutes. Really very. Very really. Lucky, that was.

"Nighty-night, Hermie," Draco petted her head at last. "Have a kip, eh? I tell Weasel where you are. He'll come retrieve you for the champagne breakfast toast, ducks. Sleep it off, alright? Back soon, I promise."

"Yesh. 'Nigh'"

Hermione snuggled into the lovely, lovely divan. A cashmere throw descended gently upon her, spelled there by Draco's murmur. She smiled.

"Oh, yesh…m'happy. _Am_."


	4. Stage 1, Scene 1, Act 1 Harry's Office

****Stage I: **As You Like It**

****Act 1, Scene 1. Circa 2001-2002. **The Ministry of Magic, Auror Headquarters, Harry Potter's office.  
><strong>  
>A slightly younger-looking Harry is seated dutifully at his huge glossy desk, fiddling with the piles of folders atop his blotter. He's frowning and he's pale, and seems a bit weary…as if his world is not quite the brilliant place he might've expected it to be, a few years prior, just post Battle of Hogwarts.<p>

"Harry. Have you ever heard a Niffler laugh?" His guest, however, is chipper. Almost too much so.

"What—er, _what_?"

Luna Lovegood was ensconced upon one of the two chairs stationed opposite his piled-high desk, blinking inquisitively at him, quill at the ready. Wearing very little, really, and all of it quite form-fitting.

"Or those Triwizard dragons? Did they laugh at you, between the roaring? I always wondered about that bit. I'd think they'd think it was funny, being as they're so big and we're generally quite small…in comparison. "

"L-Luna?" Harry wasn't getting it; not at all. "Er? Ah…why are you here, Luna? Did I, um—did I miss something?"

"Harry. We have an interview? For _The Quibbler_, remember?"

Harry looked 'round him, startled, and caught sight of the wall clock. The time he thought he had had available between one onerous task and the next had flown by far too quickly. His space was invaded by a wifty blonde with somewhat protruding eyeballs of blue. And Malfoy hair. And a notepad.

Clad in minimal clothing. Er, um.

He swallowed, dropping his own quill with a little annoying spatter. So much for reviewing the case files on the recently captured Dolohov. It would have to wait.

"Okay, hi, Luna. Um. Sure. Tea?"

"Alright, though I'm not thirsty." She twinkled at him. "You might be…though _I_ think it's the comfort aspect, with hot beverages. Tea, I mean, 'specially. It's always tea, isn't? You really don't like interviews, do you, Harry?"

"Ah…well. Now that you mention it…"

Harry smiled at her, a bit uncertainly. He didn't, as a rule, but this was Luna, and she was leagues better than anyone else who might grill him. The thought of Skeeter in his office made him wince automatically—but then Skeeter was banned from the Ministry, one of the few good things his fame and position had brought about, post-war.

"No, not really," he admitted, "but it's alright. I'm willing enough and I know your dad wanted it from me—to boost circulation, right? How's he doing, by the by, Luna?"

"Well, that and he's curious, Harry. I know I am."

"Super," Harry replied, his smile slipping. "Fantastic. Well, then, sure. Erm, fire away, Luna." He'd rather hoped the interest was beginning to die down, but Luna—for all her daft air—was a reliable barometer for certain things and one of those, oddly enough, was what was newsworthy. "Ask me whatever."

And Luna was Harry's friend. That he did know, though maybe not why exactly. No one knew why exactly, with Luna.

"So, the Niffler, Harry? Laughing?"

"Er…no." Harry struggled to remember her question, which was ridiculous, naturally. Why would anyone even care? "No, I haven't."

"What about Bugbears? Or Jarveys? Or hippogriffs? Do they laugh or do they giggle—or maybe snort? What d'you think, Harry?" She was seriously insistent, sitting forward. Enough so that her blouse—a baggy white affair, loosely gathered round the neck with a rainbow coloured riband—fell right off one shoulder.

A creamy sexy shoulder. Luna had grown up quite nicely. And out, too. Nice bosom. If Harry was interested, he'd have bedded her long since.

"Um, um, Luna, look—really, I'm not sure what—"

And Luna would've been quite agreeable. Luna, from what Harry understood, was quite adventurous—and not at all particular. She took all comers…if she liked them. Pansexual. No one knew, though, what precisely might trigger the liking, though, so quite a number of frustrated wizards and witches were to be found trailing forlornly—or hopefully—after Luna's microscopic skirts.

Harry thought that a hoot—that she was such a looker and that everybody gagged after her. The same damned people who'd played tricks on her, back at Hogwarts, too, often enough.

Most fitting, really. He smiled at Luna because of it, pleased. People deserved a little payback, sometimes.

"I mean, you've run into scads of magical creatures, Harry," Luna was saying, her fair head tilted to the one side. Blue eyes blinked at him. "There was the Basilisk and then Buckbeak. And all the Animagi, too. Did Professor Lupin howl when he wasn't in his werewolf form, a'tall? Did he sound like he might, maybe? I only really remember him from DADA, so I don't know. I always wondered, though."

"Look, Luna, I thought this was supposed to be about the war—you know, Voldemort, the Death Eaters…the Malfoys."

Luna stared at him for a moment and then fluttered her lashes, slowly.

"No, Harry. What _ever_ gave you that impression?"

Harry stared back, faintly confused.

"Er, Hermione?"

"Oh. No. No. Everyone knows about that bit, Harry—or they think they do, which is alright, I guess, as they won't likely listen to anything different."

"Erm—"

"No, I wanted to know about the creatures you've met, Harry. Or the Animagi, 'cause they count, too, really. Like your godfather—did he chase sticks when he was a dog? Did you ever have the urge to toss him a ball, maybe see what would happen?"

Harry gulped. He hated talking about Sirius; conversely, he also relished it. Leave it to Luna to ask him whether he'd ever wanted to play fetch with the man he'd once believed was a Grim, out to murder him!

"This isn't—quite—what I had in mind, Luna." Harry shook his head insistently. "Hermione _said_—"

"Prolly Granger did," Luna nodded, tossing some hair about in a golden-white swirl. "But that's not anything new, Harry. The War, I mean. We were all there, the ones who matter, right? We know or we don't." She shrugged at him, clearly dismissing the war as newsworthy. "So, tell me, do you think Care of Magical Creatures gave you a leg up on speaking Parseltongue fluently? Did you need to practice it?"

"No—no, I didn't." Harry shrugged as well, after a long pause. What the hell, eh? This was _Luna_, after all. "Okay, _no_. Creatures, then. Right. Um, what else did you need to know, Luna?"

"Remember that snake—the one Malfoy spelled? At your duel? Was he friendly? Not Malfoy; of course _he_ wasn't, not then, but the snake. You seemed on good terms with him. _Was_ it a him, for that matter? I know females have curves, where the eggs are laid from, but how would one go about addressing a snake properly if one doesn't know the sex? Do they mind that, Harry? That one doesn't know?"

"Er, no. Not in my opinion. And no, I never asked my godfather to play fetch, either. Although—"

"Yes, Harry?" Luna paused in jotting down her notes—which Harry promptly decided he didn't want to see, ever—and looked at him, face serene as ever.

"Although I might've thought about it, once or twice," Harry admitted. "And Remus didn't howl so much as sigh. He sighed a lot, as I remember. More than he should've."

"Oh. Perhaps because he couldn't, otherwise."

"Could be. I really don't know, Luna, sorry. Wish I did."

"It's alright." Luna made another note; Harry was of the opinion it likely had nothing to do with the interview. Possibly it was her shopping list or maybe a scrap of poetry—who ever knew, with her? "Harry, is there any creature you wish you'd had more time to spend with? Or a creature you want to meet?"

"Hum, lessee." Harry thought rather hard about this. He had to admit this was a relief, that Luna wasn't asking him _those_ kinds of questions. These were far better. "I think maybe…maybe the centaurs. I liked them. Not that they weren't a bit…frightening. I mean, they're very powerful and wise, and all that, but…they seemed very kind."

"Yes, I'd say so, too, Harry," Luna nodded. "But they're not really Creatures, exactly. They're beings—like Veela are, or vampires. Or werewolves. I was asking about the beasts more than the other."

"Oh, er…"

"Do you want to think about it? Because I can come back, Harry."

"Um…well," Harry shrugged. This was just a totally different line of enquiry than he'd been expecting; he had to admit he wasn't really prepared. But…come to think on it, it was sort of interesting, He had met a lot of strange creatures and not all of them had wanted to harm him. Though Nagini? Eugh! He didn't want Luna to ask him about that particular serpent—much nicer to think about the one he'd spoken to at the Muggle Zoo—the boa—or the whatever it was that git Malfoy had thrown at him in Third Year—no, Second. That had been Second.

His brain hurt, literally.

"If you don't mind it too much, yeah, Luna," he sighed, looking down at his gathered files. He was due at a meeting in the next half hour and he wasn't ready for that, either. "Sorry."

"No, it's alright. I told Granger you wouldn't be ready to talk about it yet, but she thought you might. Do you think maybe Malfoy will talk to me? He must've met a lot of creatures, growing up as he did. They travelled."

"Um…maybe? I only speak to him sometimes, Luna, so I don't really know. And really…not. I mean, it's been years now, since he went off to Romania. You'd have to ask him. Owl him, maybe."

"I think I will. He's returned, you know? He's nice to me, now. Very polite, always. On Diagon. And his mother is nice, though his father always seems to think I'm going to break things."

Harry sniffed. "You should, Luna. You should break things, if you're there—though I can't imagine why you'd ever go back there. Expensive things—treasures. He deserves it, that bastard."

"Oh...no, Harry." Luna shook her head and then popped her quill behind her ear, flipping her notebook closed. "Malfoy's been spending all that time mending. I don't think it would be a very kind way to repay him, do you?"

"Is he? Mending what, exactly, Luna?"

"His life, Harry. The Manor. His Mum and Dad."

Harry laughed, a sharp, short bitter bark. "Well, yeah, I suppose that's right. Needs to, doesn't he?"

Luna cocked her chin at him, her big blue eyes staring.

"Harry?" she said, in that voice that always warned Harry something utterly loopy was about to be said to him—to which he'd have no sane response, naturally.

"Harry, Weasley wants to talk to you. There's whatdoyoucallit—issues? And she and Granger and I have formulated a Plan. Since we have them…well, most of us. Longbottom, not so much."

"A Plan?" Harry couldn't help but capitalize the word, as Luna had. He blinked, grateful not to be hauled into addressing his 'issues'. They were many and he didn't want to think of them now, because then he'd abandon his paperwork and his scheduled appointment and run screaming. "What sort of Plan, Luna?" he prompted cautiously, much as one would poke something potentially lethal with a sharpened stick. "And which Weasley?"

"Oh, Harry, it's funny you should ask! That's exactly what Granger and Weasley want to tell you!"

Luna bubbled over with sudden loud laughter. She crossed her legs at the knee and fell into the state of it, happily collapsing, and Harry got a good eyeful of her knickers beneath the incredibly short hot pink miniskirt she wore. The knickers seemed to consist solely of one meagre inch of Lycra lace, stretched impossibly tight.

He shuddered, instinctively, sitting up straight as a poker and turning his eyes politely to the ceiling tiles, which were thankfully very bland after that visual shocker. Oh, Luna was a knockout, now she'd grown up, an absolute beauty in her own totally odd way, but she did utterly nothing for him—or his bits. No woman did. And this was alright, as it turned out. Pity was, well, very few wizards did much for Harry, either. And it wasn't as though Harry got out much.

"Er, Luna?" he attempted gingerly, as her gales of giggles at last died away. "What Plan are you referring to, exactly?"

"Theatricals, Harry," Luna sat forward, blithely discarding her barely used parchment and quill to the floor. She seemed all at once alight from within. "We're forming a Troupe, Harry, and we need you. You'll be a star of the stage, Harry, and it'll be grand! I can't wait!"

"Um…no." Harry knew trouble when he saw it. "No, thanks. Really. I can't. I've a job—I'm busy, Luna."

"Yes, you can, Harry," Luna blinked at him. "You aren't busy. Your job is silly—they won't allow you to Auror, Harry. And Granger's terribly busy and she's running the show, so you can, definitely, no question, because you have simply buckets of time. Just like Malfoy, really. It's all you have, now. You should use it."

"No, Luna, I can't," Harry replied, gently as he could in the circumstances. "Or maybe," he added, voice firming, "it's that I won't. I've no interest in performing in public—it's absolutely the last thing I'd ever choose, Luna, and Hermione should know—"

"Harry," Luna grinned sweetly at him, entirely unheeding. "We've already cast you. You can't let us down."

"…Ah."

The miniature hot pink pineapples in Luna's ears bobbled as she continued to blink at him. Harry would bet ten Galleons the little baubles glowed in the dark.

"Can you?"

Harry gulped.

"You," he croaked, "you said both Ginny _and_ Hermione are in on this, Luna?"

"Uh-huh," she nodded happily. "And me, of course."

"Er…how many others? Who else is involved?"

"Hmmm," she tilted her blonde head the other way, so that a long sweep of incredibly blond hair cascaded down the right side of her chest, trailing artistically into her forgotten teacup. "Lessee. Um. Longbottom and Blaise, the Thomases….um, let me think—oh! Lavender and Parvati. They handle the costuming. Um, Ronald Weasley, because he has to—Granger and Weasley both said. Er…Parkinson? She's the set dresser."

"Parkinson?" Harry gulped. "And by 'Blaise', d'you mean Zabini? That Blaise?" Harry had laid both hands flat on his desk; the stance provided some sense of balance in a world that was rapidly becoming Luna-fied.

"Oh, yes, Harry. Them. Er—him. Ummm…" she tapped her chin. "Millie! Millie Bulstrode. She's in charge of stunts and that sort of thing. Effects, special. And, er, she'll being doing up our playbills and posters. She's very graphically inclined, you know. Also, she sings. It's lovely."

"Ah—er, that's a lot of people, Luna," Harry replied slowly, digesting. He sat back in his well-cushioned seat, atop his Ministry-approved safety-swivelly chair, and glanced about his office: to the one side, filing drawers. To the other: more filing drawers, stacked. Behind him his framed Order of Merlin, First Class, and his Auror Certificate, signed by both Kingsley and Dawlish. Before him, two visitor's chairs and a small table between them, holding up a rather elaborate Ministry elf tea service. Everything in the room was of the finest quality, from the quills he used to the plush carpet on the polished wooden parquet flooring. His was a VIP's office, not the cubby the standard, common garden First Year Auror got handed.

"There's more," Luna murmured gently, staring at Harry's pencil cup as if it fascinated her. "Plenty more. More Weasleys—there are a great lot of them; I never realized, did you? And Hogwartsians. What a lovely word, Hogwartsians. Hmmm. Yes, but them as well. You won't be alone, Harry." She glanced about the office, lips pursed. "Not like _here_."

"An awful lot of people, really." Harry's face fell. It was rather clear he was being leaned upon. The way Luna leaned upon one, which is to say she more drifted by, off course, and knocked one off one's pins and in an entirely new direction. "I, ah. I'm alright, you know? Luna? I see loads of people; really don't require any more. 'Specially Malfoys."

"They're all friends, Harry," Luna replied, her eyes alighted on the Order of Merlin. "_We_ are. You want to be amongst friends, don't you?"

"Er," Harry hesitated, "…yes. Yes, I s'pose I do."

"Brilliant, Harry," Luna beamed at him. "I'm so very glad. Now we've that sorted—what about Jarveys? D'you think you'd like one for the office? As a companion animal? They make for lovely conversationalists, I hear. And they laugh."

Harry rolled his eyes at her, deliberately steering his mind away from the implications of what he might've just agreed to. The less he thought of that the better…and perhaps it would come to nothing, as so much else had.

"Luna, those beasts curse a blue streak! I can hardly have a pet Jarvey _here_. It'll insult someone—someone it shouldn't. They'll be furious—and I'll never make the field if I brass the upper echelon! Dawlish already doesn't like me much. Think of the consequences."

She blinked at him, slowly, and twirled a stray curl.

"But, Harry. Jarveys are amusing—they make you giggle." She leaned forward across his desk suddenly, confidentially. "You _and_ Malfoy, Harry. You need to chuckle—to chortle and giggle and guffaw. Daily."

"Look, Luna, this is really not the place for that—"

"Yes, Harry, it is," Luna replied sagely. "If there's any place in the world that needs it, it's this place. And you, as you're here, too. Malfoy made me laugh once, in his basement. Did you know? The wandmaker, too, just a little. Now, I realize he's not quite a Jarvey, but maybe Malfoy…maybe Malfoy…"

She tapped her chin contemplatively, her voice trailing off. Harry felt a distinct curl of dread in his gut, forming and expanding.

"Maybe Malfoy what, Luna?" he demanded, fretful. "What're you thinking _now_?"

Her smile was brilliant—and sly.

"Only that dragons laugh, too, Harry. Or they should—stands to reason. Someone should look into it, I think. Explore."

"Er…" Harry peered at his guest, puzzled. "Okay, and?"

But Luna was gathering up her things and rising, to teeter on four-inch heels. She looked down at him, her pale blue gaze hosting a distinctly Dumbedorian twinkle. And smiled—sweetly.

"Nothing, Harry. I'm off to explore some more…you think about the interview while I'm gone. And we'll see you, right? The Leaky on Friday this, half five, all the tables in the back. Can't miss us, really. Look for Malfoy, alright? Or a great many Weasleys, all at once. You'll find us, I'm sure."

"Luna! No, really, I don't think I can—"

"Bye, Harry,"

"Luna!"

"So glad you will, Harry…thanks. You're a true friend."

"Gah!"

When the door closed sharply behind her pert bottom, Harry had to struggle for a moment with his jaw, which refused to re-hinge properly.

"Well," he said to his empty office. "Well…_shit_!"


	5. S1, Act 1, Scene 2 Draco, Butter & Tea

**Stage 1, Act 1, Scene 2. **Circa 2001-2002. London, off Diagon Alley, a café. 'Draco, Butter & Tea'

* * *

><p>Enter one Draco Malfoy, retired schoolboy menace. And one Luna Lovegood, who, in a very odd manner, is excruciatingly aptly named. Both are clad in the street fashions of Wizarding London, circa the very early years of the 21st century. Draco Malfoy, in classy tailored raw silk white button down, tight black five-button Levis, no socks and loafers, or Wizarding University Leisure Mode, Upper Class. He cuts a snappish figure and is remarkably handsome, albeit angular of feature. Hell, call it 'pointy'. He sports one pierced earlobe and a tiny emerald stud in it. His sleeves are rolled up over manly forearms, furred with very scant fair pelt, and a faded black inked tattoo peeks out, rippling as he nurses his teacup. Lovegood, on the other hand, is garbed in a variety of decadent cloth tatters with a variety of accessories and all of it skimpy and rather clingy withal. Corset bustiers and dangly earrings are heavily implied. Both have heads of exceedingly fair hair; they could be brother and sister from a distance.<p>

Lovegood is remarkably well kitted out in the breast department; Draco is intriguingly lean and fit, and sports an arse to be mightily envied. Draco is gay; Lovegood's an unknown quantity.

They are young, they are beautiful and, of a certainty, they are not Muggles.

And place them in the biergarten of a certain Bohemian coffee shop on Comic Alley, just off Diagon, where Luna Lovegood, intrepid reporter for _The Quibbler_ and founding member of the brand-spanking-new theatre troupe The Unnamed Players, has at last run the dapper young Mr Malfoy to ground. Luna may've even been trying; in any case she has succeeded. Malfoy has a somewhat beleaguered air to him; Lovegood is bubbly, insistent and a good bit daft in her manner. They sit outside, enjoying the breezes and the strong sunshine. For once it is not raining. Everything is green and fresh, redolent of Spring. That may be the ambient Magic.

Luna is, in Draco Malfoy's learned opinion, always trying. Generally he endures her, with a faint smattering of actual liking. This is all Parkinson's fault and he blames her for it.

Nevertheless, it's a beautiful spring day in 2002 and Luna is up to all her old tricks, such as they are. Mr Malfoy is resisting like mad, naturally, but the outcome is sadly inevitable.

Like so:

"So, I really think you should, Draco," Luna announces to the world at large, apropos of nothing she'd been blabbering on about before. _Before _had been all about Draco's travels to Romania and the dragons he'd worked with there; _before_ had also covered his present state of mildly entrepreneurial aimlessness. Draco was between jobs and 'resting', as they say in the parlance. His father had evinced his displeasure with that state, only just that very morning. As a consequence, Draco Malfoy was already a tad tense about the shoulder blades and neck region. He scowled.

"Think I should what, Lovegood?" Draco growled, fed up if not actually victualed. He couldn't simply vacate the table they shared and stroll away, as he so wished he could—that wasn't on—but he could emit off-putting vibes in the hope Lovegood would up and take herself away. Or he could attempt to do so, but his innately instilled good manners were preventing him from acting upon his bone-deep urge to mock, slash and flee post-haste. He fell back on snark, his old standby. "You're full of advice today; it's not like you. Been spending quality time with Parkinson again, have you?"

"Pansy is so pretty, isn't she? So pretty…"

Lovegood, having shared this, stared off into the far distance, apparently suddenly struck by the sheer force of cogent thought. Draco choked on his tea.

His old pal Pansy was not by any real definition of the word 'pretty' but…he supposed she was attractive, in a neo-strumpet, ex-Death Eater's wealthy daughter, Gothic Corpse Bride sort of way. Pansy favoured sporting leather and multiple piercings, black glossy nail lacquer and impossibly high heels with stabbing points. If the Devil wore Prada, Pansy wore Tripp and Toxico right along with her mother's pearls, combined with an intense air of antidisestablishmentarianist ic determination. Draco did have to admit the Look suited her.

Point was, unfortunately, that Pansy was not present to save him from Loony Luna. Draco was at her vacuous mercy.

"Yes, I do absolutely adore Pansy, Draco, and I'd love to show her, but that's not the point here." Lovegood, having paused for a sip and returned from whatever had claimed her attention, turned those pale blue searchlight eyeballs upon Draco again. "My personal fancies aside, Draco, the point is—"

"I can't believe you have one, actually," Draco muttered rudely, shuddering quietly at the thought of Pans and Loony in bed. That was a very disturbing mental image but also somehow exciting. His other hand strayed down his Levis to exert a bit of pressure on his todger, which had twitched. "Yes?" he added, loudly, shifting in his bent-iron patio chair uncomfortably. "Your point is?"

Luna beamed at him over her cuppa, waving a half-eaten mini-croissant. Flakes of buttery crust sifted down upon the tablecloth.

"We've this little group going on now, Draco, and we'd really like you to be a part of it."

"I don't want to," Draco shot back instantly, averse to any and all suggestions from Loony, merely on principle. "Really, Lovegood, I've no time."

"No, no!"

Lovegood shook her head slowly at him and waved her partially eaten pastry for additional emphasis, achieving a wide arc that threatened Draco's sharp nose. Draco flinched; Lovegood was not a pretty eater. He'd consumed meals with more aesthetically pleasing Horntails. Butter dripped, currents dribbled singly and stickily from the jam Luna had lathered her pastry with.

"Oh, no, no, no!" she replied brightly. "You have a great deal of time, Draco Malfoy. More time than you know what to do with, rather."

"Now, Lovegood," Draco began, reasonably.

"I have a solution," Luna insisted, peering at him sideways and squinty, her chin cocked. She grinned widely, revealing damp crumbs and yet more jam. "You should take it. More than that, you should gallop away with it, joyously. You should bask. _I_ am."

"Bask? Beg pardon?"

Draco firmly ignored any suggestion of him basking; Malfoys did not bask, precisely.

"Bask," Luna nodded. "More than that, Draco. Do it joyously."

"Hah! I do not have time to spare for such nonsense—there's where you're wrong, Lovegood!" Draco countered, mustering up all his inherited Malfoy backbone. "M'father is expecting me to ingratiate myself promptly into a paying position, you see, and I rather think that will eat up any time I might have left over, after sleeping and eating. All that bowing and scraping, you know—and the bootlicking. Let's not forget the bloody bootlicking," he added bitterly. "I haven't."

Malfoys were not in terribly high demand amongst the legion of more traditional wizarding companies. Draco knew this after a solid month of disappointing rounds of interviews. He was, though highly skilled and the possessor of many a fine NEWT, almost unemployable in his homeland. The thought of foreign climes—more salubrious—beckoned.

'Too much,' his personal representative had pronounced at the employment bureau. 'You'll have to fudge your CV, Mr Malfoy.'

"No…" he repeated himself, contemplatively, musing over his sure-to-be boring future, "I have yet to find myself a job, Lovegood. A real one. I don't have time to play with you. A job is my priority. Owl me later—perhaps in a decade. Perhaps in France. That should do it nicely."

Luna chuckled at him, fondly. She stuck the last of her croissant in her mouth and smiled widely at him through the crumbs.

"Mph'ar'u'ong," she burbled. "Nurff!"

"Excuse me, what?" Draco asked, politely. "You were saying?" He blinked at the masticated dough and dearly wished for Parkinson. Or possibly Goyle, who had rather better table manners than either of these silly girls.

"That's where you are in the wrong, Dra-co," Lovegood enunciated every syllable after swallowing. "The pos-i-tion I am su-ggest-ing is a pay-ing one, real-ly."

"Oh, cease with that annoying nonsense, Lovegood," Draco exclaimed. "I'm hardly a ninny! You can't pay me—you can't even afford to cough it up for this spread!" He gestured at the tiny table between them, packed with the remains of elevenses.

"Un-huh." Lovegood bobbed her chin at him amiably, slurping tea like a thirsty pony. "Right-oh, Draco. In any event, you'll take home Galleons aplenty to impress your Daddy, trust me. Just not at first."

"Not at first?" Draco was curious, despite himself. "Why not, Lovegood, if you don't mind my asking? What's the catch? What's the job, for that matter?"

"Because we need to put on a show first, silly," Luna laughed at him, reaching over to rub his Dark-Marked arm with smeared fingertips. She often did this for no good reason; Draco wasn't sure if there was a good reason now but Pansy wasn't present and she was his usual touchstone for literal Lovegood translation, as well as functioning as the social buffer between Draco and assorted riff-raff. Not that Lovegood was 'riff-raff', precisely. Straight-up unadulterated Lovegood was like a distinct shot of the espresso of unreality. Pure-blooded as they come and completely out to luncheon, and that likely due to the inbreeding that afflicted the upper reaches of the old wizarding families. "That's the way these things work, Draco," Luna nodded furiously. "No pain, no gain."

"Pardon? A show? What sort of show?" He gulped, fretting. This was ominous, Lovegood's enthusiasm. "And pain—what is this pain you mention?"

"To play. We need to play first. A play. But we have one all sorted out!" Luna crowed. She conducted the empty air before with both hands, stirring up the pollen from the flower bouquet set upon their table. Draco sneezed instantly. "You'll see! It'll be super, Draco! You'll love it!"

"S'cuse me," he murmured, dabbing at his afflicted nose. "What'll I love? I don't recall being willing to love anything, Lovegood. What the feck _are_ you babbling about? I don't have all day to hear you out, you know!"

"And you'll be perfect, Draco!" Loony babbled anyway. She always did; it gave Draco the migraine. "Of course—don't mention it. Bless you and all that, and erm, gesundheit. Anyway, I can see you in puffy pantaloons and a buckler, Draco—positively brilliant! And maybe all that in a violet shade, to highlight your brooding, Draco. With some lace at your throat. Dresden. You brood so attractively, Draco. We should use that, I think."

"I do?" Draco had lost the page; it was par for the course with Lovegood. He so needed Pansy here this morning, but he was sadly bereft. Pansy was in Paris, shopping. Or possibly Rio. Who knew? "Really? Ah, thanks, I think. Nice of you to say."

"Oh, you're very welcome, Draco. No problem!"

"Er, good, then." Draco sat back and sipped his tea calmly, playing for additional time to react to whatever odd proposition this was that involved him brooding, in purple, and people being in favour of it. Oh, right—he still needed to sort that. "Er. What exactly _is _it you're suggesting here, Lovegood? Just tell me, in plain English, please. Um, now-ish. I'm running a bit behind this morning."

Lovegood practically climbed over the table between them, she leant so close to Draco and his tea cup.

"Acting, Draco. Hermione thought you'd be a natural at it. So here I am," Luna raised a blonde eyebrow conspiratorially and muttered out of the side of her mouth, for all the world like a telly 'tective. "The article was just a front, you know? I mean, really. Dragons are nice and all that but Snorkacks are so much more interesting to our readers. I had to plead with Daddy for a promise of the last page in Society. It was a real drag, Draco, but you are my friend. Of course I'd do anything for you."

"Was it now? Really?" Draco hadn't known his tale of dragon handling was just a run-of-the-mill back page story, but then didn't that simply figure? First positive attention he'd received since returning to the shores of his homeland and here Lovegood was telling him it was just a ruse and a time-waster. "And did you, really?" He blinked, calling upon the famed Malfoy savoir faire: when in doubt, smile and back away slowly. "Lovely, then, thanks for that. Ah. You know, Lovegood, I don't really think I'm interested in whatever it is you're proposing, sorry. I'm not actor material. I don't wish to be, either. And Muggle technology is arcane and confusing. I've enough on my plate at the moment-"

"Oh, but you are, Draco!" Luna flailed her arms at him, sloshing tea and gobs of jam, "you so are! You're perfect, Draco! I always thought so! Not a hair out of place, even when you threatened all those tiny little Hufflepuffs! Remember that, Draco? I was so impressed with you then and you'd had barely any training! Only what your father taught you-but really, I can't imagine a better villain, Draco. And I'd also imagine your Oberon would be famous. You really should. You're made for it. They'll adore you."

"My…my Oberon?"

"The king of Fairie, Draco," Lovegood nodded smugly, retreating just far enough away to snatch up yet another of the tiny pastries Draco had ordered along with his tea. She'd been helping herself to most of them; Draco had only managed to obtain one ruddy bran muffin out of the entire lot. A plain bran muffin. So exquisitely healthful it was abysmal. "Come now, you know that," Loony chided him familiarly. "You'd make a perfect Oberon. And likely too an amazing Mercutio. You're marvellous, really. Very adaptable. Bendy."

"Er, who, now?" Draco was confused. Of course he knew the King of Fairies, but Mercutio was someone new to his ken. "Who's that, Lovegood? This Mercutio fellow?"

"Oh, er, he's a Muggle, Draco."

"A Muggle? You think I'm like a Muggle?" Draco's instincts rose the fore in a clamour. He hissed, brows lowered in a dark scowl. "Don't even go there, Lovegood! M'father will have my bollocks if he even thinks I'm aping Muggles—I don't care what Granger's great bloody Reformation says, he's still a dyed-in-the-wool pure-blood! I'm toast if I actually go along with whatever it is you've got stuck in your barmy brain box, Lovegood. Give it up, do. Go bother someone else. Try Zabini on for size; he'll likely do it, the arse. He laps it up, that sort of thing. I don't."

Draco crossed his arms before his chest, huffing. Decidedly he was not seeking attention. Loony was correct; Father was all about attention, but Draco wasn't. He just wanted a quiet life—and a job that paid well. That's it. Nothing more, thanks ever so.

Now, to impress that upon Lovegood, which would be no easy task. Lovegood was Ravenclaw trained; they never, ever relinquished their more outlandish intellectually-based notions, even if the concepts they embraced were dead wrong and still in the water. Likely Lovegood had run some aptitude tests on him in secret, when he wasn't looking.

"Well," the Ravenclaw ninny tapped her chin with a pointy pink fingernail, one ragged from nibbling and with half the polish worn away. "What he doesn't know won't give him apoplexy, will it? Just don't tell him, Draco." She nodded happily, having solved that problem. "Not till later. But you shouldn't lie. That's not nice, either. But omission's alright, I should think. And your mum knows. Everything's groovy. Right? Oh—may I have that last one there? The cherry?"

"Don't tell him _what_, Lovegood?" Draco insisted, waving impatiently at the cherry topped sweetmeat. "You haven't told _me_, so how in Hades am I supposed to tell him anything? Try for clarity, will you? You're very confusing, you know, and I'm still a bit lagged from the Portkey, alright? Take pity—explain in words of few syllables for me."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Draco," Lovegood hummed and smiled and petted him aimlessly on the arm, missing half the time and stroking Draco's half-consumed muffin instead, smearing butter all over his plate and the cloth. "Not being clear. 'Pologies. And thanks—this is very good. I do like cherry."

"Lovely," Draco bit out. "I'm glad. Tell him what, Loony? Tell me what, for that matter?"

"I meant to say, don't tell him you're working for us. With us—together. What he doesn't know won't hurt his sensibilities, will it?"

"Wait just a bleeding second here, Lovegood," Draco gritted through impressively clenched teeth. "Who exactly ever said they'd work for you, anyway? Because I distinctly recall not agreeing to anything of the sort! And who is this Muggle you're comparing me to? You've not said much of anything, Loony, at least not to the point. Try again."

"You, Draco," Lovegood sat forward again, entirely too close, and jabbed Draco's chest twice, in rapid succession. Her fingernails, though unkempt, were quite sharp. "Are a natural born actor. We need you. We might even pay you, eventually. So yes, that's that. It's decided."

"It is not decided!" Draco huffed. "Nothing is decided, you barmy bint! I never said yes to any of this nonsense. Have you forgotten? I still need to procure a paying position! That's my imperative, Loony. Get that through your blonde head, will you?"

"But you'll have one, Draco," Luna was absolutely beatific. Draco gawped at her bland air of absolute certainty. "No need to be rude about it. Just as soon as we've had our first production. It'll be a wild success. Ginny Weasley's already making up posters and even Harry's signed on with us. We can't miss! It's a sure thing!"

That set Draco back on his heels. Potter?

"Er, Potter? Potter has? What's this you're going on about now, Lovegood? This is first time you've mentioned Potter. I thought—"

"He's not with the Aurors any longer, Draco—he's with us. And the two of you together in the footlights will be grand! I can hardly wait to see it! Waiter!"

"The two of us…together…?" Draco murmured. His head spun. Why, he and Potter had had no contact since just after the huge sorting out that had happened after the final battle. Draco had hared off to Romania to take a job with Charlie Weasley—after much internal anguish-and Potter had entered the Auror corps, or so he'd deduced from gossip and the papers. He'd not seen Potter in a dog's age. "Hang on, Lovegood," he gasped. "Why would Potter ever give up Aurors to prance about a two-bit stage out in the benighted countryside? He's no actor!"

Luna's grin was absolutely blinding in its brilliance. The waiter, newly arrived, literally reeled in his tracks.

"Ma'am?" he breathed, gazing at Lovegood with a stricken look about him. "May I be of service? _Please_?"

Luna glanced up at him, all fluttering lashes and crumb-plastered smiles, and the poor clod flushed a brick red, his moderately handsome face mottling.

"Ooooh!" he moaned, features slackening as the full force of Luna-on-sugar walloped him. Draco growled, on principle. This was disgusting! He was trapped in a bad het sex scene and couldn't for the life of him escape politely!

"Oh! You're Rolf, aren't you? I've heard about you!" Luna's face was alight with sudden comprehension. "You're bloody fit, Rolfie."

"Have-have you?" the waiter whispered, gulping. "Oh! Oh, erm—tha-that's good, isn't it? I am, actually, very much so. Er, Rolf. That's my name, yes. Do you—so, ah, you like it? M-Me?"

"Ack!" Draco choked. "Stop that, you two! Decorum!" This was horrid; how could she, with him sitting right here?

"Oh, absolutely," Luna gushed on, oblivious. "It's so—so manly, Rolf. Very suitable." Luna gave the waiter a very visible once-over, from boot tip to wild cowlicks and Draco sneered; he'd never been privy to a Lovegood on the pull before and this was certainly highly distasteful. He objected strongly, as anyone in their right mind should.

"Oh, please, Lovegood," he grumbled, "enough already! Order whatever and let this chap be about his business, please. I'm running out of time, here. And I'm still clueless as to what you want of me."

"Hush, Draco, this is Rolf What'sit. He's an aspiring actor, just as you are." Lovegood sent him a quick and fleeting frown. She turned back to the blushing young man in the stained white apron. "Rolfie, meet Draco. Draco, this is Rolfie. You'll be working together shortly. Rolfie, we can count on you? For the show?"

Rolfie—poor, unfortunate bleeder, Draco thought, to be landed with that lousy nickname and so quickly!—swallowed hard and practically genuflected at Lovegood's wriggling bare toes. They peeped through her lace-up Grecian sandals. Which were tied off at the knee. A good twelve inches was bared to the world above that before there was any actual skirt to mask Lovegood's privates. Draco kept his eyes averted; Rolfie did just the opposite, ears steaming, eyes bulging. Flies bulging, too. It was clear he was smitten.

No accounting for taste, Draco concluded, his eyes tactfully focused on nothing in particular. If Rolfie wanted to make a fool of himself over Loony, it was his funeral—provided he didn't actually fall upon her like the ravening dog he was beginning to resemble. Poor chap was panting, literally! Blech!

"Oh! Oh, yes, Miss! Anything you want, alright? _Anything_!"

"Brilliant." Lovegood was terribly happy over something; almost triumphant, Draco thought. "I think I could love you, Rolf. We'll see, though. Then, erm…more tea and may I have your Floo address, please, Rolfie? I'll drop by later, at your flat. You have a flat, don't you? When's your shift finished? Do you have a roomie? Because you should probably send him or her away, if I am. We'll be wanting some privacy."

"Urgh," Rolfie groaned, sagging. He dropped his serving tray with a hideous clatter, which fully revealed the tremendous swell in his shop apron, jutting. Draco attempted to appear as if he knew no one and was present at the table entirely by accident.

"Tacky," he muttered darkly. "Lovegood, I am still here, remember? But I won't be for much longer, so you need to drag your eyeballs off this unfortunate bloke and he needs to remove his tongue from the table and I wish to Merlin you would finally make clear what it is you want from me. I have a pressing appointment, one sharpish. I can't be late."

"Oh!" Luna dimpled at him. "Sorry, Draco. I was distracted, wasn't I?"

"Aren't you always?"

Rolfie sagged miserably, having lost her attention.

"No, you don't, Draco," Lovegood bustled on, ignoring Draco's snippishness. "I've cancelled that for you—you'll be with me, instead. We're meeting up with everyone to discuss this. That's alright, isn't it? Your mum said it was fine with her when I owled earlier. She thinks it's lovely, you having more friends. Very matey."

"What _what_? What the hell _are_ you talking about, Lovegood—cancelling my appointments without my leave?" Draco was incensed. "How dare you—"

Loony petted Draco's muffin again, her long blond hair trailing into the sugar bowl. Poor Rolfie still stood motionless by their table, his jaw dropped and practically swinging in the spring zephyrs, eyes glued to Lovegood's every incomprehensible motion. He seemed particularly entranced with her toes.

"Go away, Rolfie," Draco hissed, feeling bilious. "Get Lovegood her tea, will you?"

Lovegood paid no heed to Rolfie or the professed need for more tea. She stuck her fingers in her empty cup and twiddled with the dregs, though.

"Oh-ho!" she trilled. "There's a Grim! I must remember to tell Daddy that. Remind me, won't you, Draco?"

Draco shuddered. "No," he replied flatly. "Come on, Lovegood. Spit it out, please. Before I froth, preferably."

"Mmm, ew. Please don't."

"Lovegood!"

"Right, right. Well, your mum loves the whole idea, Draco, so that's alright then. No problem with lunch plans—we'll have sugar and fats. Fried ones. I'm ordering doughnuts. They're brain food. And we'll just talk your father into it later, okie-dokie? But I'm sure he'll be copacetic. It's attention, after all, and that's what he's all about, isn't it? He'll like it, trust me. He'll be so very proud of you, Draco, once he sees you. And quite naturally, as you'll be earning it, all of it—oh, and Rolfie?! You're still here?"

"Yes, he's still here, Loony," Draco snarled, "More's the pity!"

"Uh…huh?" Rolfie, poor chap, waggled his stubbly chin like a bloody bobble-doll. "Yeah…is that alright? I'm just looking at you, Miss. May I? Look at you? You're…so...so…very-"

"Oh my gods! Ridiculous!" Draco, overcome, nearly sicked up. "For Merlin's sake, go away, man! I can't stand the sight of you! Get the bloody tea!"

"How sweet of you," Luna giggled at Rolfie. Neither of them paid the slightest attention to Draco. "Of course you may. I like being looked at, Rolfie. And I like looking, too."

"Gah…." Rolfie gurgled, purring.

"Of all the! Rolf, old chap!"

Draco waved a hasty arm in front of the moonstruck waiter's daft face. He was of the opinion Rolfie might drool momentarily—or rip off his server's apron and go Wildman on idiot Lovegood, right under Draco's disgusted nose. Not that Lovegood wasn't attractive—she was, in a rather wifty, daft-as-houses way—but he certainly wasn't used to enduring this sort of raw lust emanating off a chap over his elevenses. It was rather sick-making, especially as he hadn't pulled in ages, being stuck in bloody backwater Romania.

"_ROLF_!"

"Ngh?"

"Look, er, Rolf," Draco went on hastily, once Rolfie spared him at least a cursory glance.

Enough, as they said, was rather more than enough. He was rather stuck with Lovegood till he sorted out what promise she was under the assumption he'd so blithely given. Because he'd not, at all, and that had to be made clear before he was further embroiled. Had to extricate himself from that, right smart. Especially as his Mum had been made aware of whatever scheme Lovegood was cooking up in that empty head of hers and apparently approved it—and that was never a good thing.

"The tea the lady requested? Would you mind bringing it? And another plate of those little pastries—apparently the lady has an appetite this morning. Would you go do that thing I ask of you right now, please? The lady and I are in the midst of a discussion."

"Gerf."

Luna gabbled something in the affirmative through the remains of the last Danish. Draco snatched up his half-muffin defensively. Lovegood was eying it predatorily even as she chewed.

"Must I?" Rolfie pleaded, turning huge puppydog eyes to Luna in an appeal. He was so obviously smitten, Draco felt bilious. "Must I really go now? I don't want to leave you, Miss."

"Mnph-hurr!" she gargled. "Orrf, f'nk'ssss! 'Ater!"

"Quite so," Draco nodded. "Don't mention it, Lovegood." He looked to the gobstruck Rolfie. "Well? Be off, then," he ordered sharply. "There's a good fellow. Tea—pastries. Got it?"

"Oh—ah!" Rolfie smiled dreamily at them both, finally edging off in the direction of the kitchens. "Um…promise me you won't go while I'm gone, Miss? Please? I still have need of your Floo address, okay? And you mine…and…and we should, maybe, you know-"

"**_Now_**, Rolfie!" Draco ordered, his small store of patience exhausted.

"Mmmm!" Lovegood, that bloody mankiller, grinned stickily through her tea. "A'righ! 'Ov'oo!"

She petted his towel-draped arm and Rolfie practically swooned across Draco's lap, the dirty little randy bastard.

"**Tea**!" Draco snapped, in best Malfoy authoritarian timbre. With due force. "_Now_, Rolfie! More tea! Spit-spot. Bustle about, man! No drooling!"

"Erm! Al-alright! Go-going!"

Rolfie meeped and fled, finally. Draco snorted after his retreating figure, deeply thankful.

"Good riddance. Now, Lovegood," he claimed her wandering attention firmly, as soon as poor Rolfie had tacked off to the fastnesses of the café, stumbling his way there backwards and never taking his eyes off Draco's companion, "what _is_ all this about Potter? What's he got to do with it?"

Luna fondled her cup.

"Um, he's one of us, Draco—just as you are. The few, the proud, the Unnamed Players." Luna giggled, madly, as was her wont. "We're a band, don't you know? It's all Ginny Weasley's idea. Or maybe not, I forget, rather, but it doesn't matter. It's all good, anyway. And you'll be one of our stars, Draco. I can hardly wait to write your feature for _The Quibbler_!"

"My what?" Draco was astounded. "My feature? What're you talking about, Loony? What feature?"

"The one you'll have after opening night, Draco. In _The Quibbler_. Don't be silly. I can't very well write up a feature till after you've done your bit, can I?"

"Um, no…" Draco allowed that made sense, of sorts. "What, then, is my bit, as you so vaguely term it? Explain."

"I'm thinking you'll be the best ever Oliver, Draco…or perhaps Touchstone. You could play Touchstone. Or Rosalind, in drag, but I really think we shouldn't push the parameters till we've gathered a stable following, don't you? Even if Shakespeare's players were all male, we don't have to be, although there's Polyjuice, which is an excellent solution—"

"Wait!" Draco stopped her with a hand thrown up. "I don't follow, Lovegood. Go slowly, will you? Who are these people you mention? Muggles? Muggle actors, like on the telly?"

"Characters, Draco. You'll play one of them. Hermione will sort it all out—she does our casting. And I think Harry might be Orlando. He's a rather natural Orlando, though I do like him for the role of Jacques, as he can brood with the best of them, but you can as well, so it's a rather a toss up, and now there's Rolfie, so we'll have a real expert on board, to show us the ropes—"

"Ropes? On board? Is this some sort of ship, Lovegood?"

"Oh, Draco, what an apt simile!" Lovegood beamed at him. "I knew you were quick on the uptake! And yes, it is, rather, and now you're part of the crew and we'll all be merry as gigs—or are they grogs? Who knows, right? But to business, now; mustn't be distracted. We'll meet up with Harry and the rest over at the Leaky in a half-hour, so save room for some luncheon, alright? Tom's idea of a ploughman's is very heavy on the intestines I always thought, and I've not been able to talk him into offering a veggie entrée yet. Have you?"

"Er, no…which isn't to say I've thought of asking him, either, Lovegood. We're, uh, meeting up with Potter, then?"

"Mmm-hmmm. I'm so excited. You two will be reunited after ages, Draco. It's really very Jacobean, don't you think? Almost Sheridan, really. Long-lost heroes, meeting again, falling into one another's arms and embracing in manly fashion. The audience will eat it up, I'm sure. Don't forget to let him know you've missed him, Draco. I rather think he'll be needing the reassurance. He's nervous; I don't know why. Plus, you'll be working together, you and he, so you should try to rub along—"

Draco, drowned in a sea of mad tangents, flopped his chin into one supporting palm and fervently wished for Tom's Firewhisky. Tea wasn't the answer—not for anything involving Lovegood, at least. He only hoped he'd come out of this with his dignity intact…although nothing was certain. Potter was involved.

_Nothing_.


	6. S1, Act 1, Scene 3 Harry at the Leaky

**Stage 1, Act 1, Scene 3. **At the Leaky.

Harry was still a bit shaky about all this. He tried to hide his unease by making conversation, which rather made it worse, not better. He'd come late in any event, rather hoping to skive altogether, but Gin had snagged him right outside the Ministry's box and forcibly Side-Alonged him to the Leaky, so there was no politic way clear. Not without offending her and she was a bit Hex-happy, in the wake of the war. Merlin, likely she'd always been that way—she had all those older brothers.

He shrugged, resolute. He was here and he might as well attempt a good time. Right?

"So, mate," he said to Neville, who was up from Hogwarts for the weekend, "will you be acting, too?"

"Oh, no, no, no," Neville chuckled, waving his pint genially. He beamed at Harry, his now mostly good-looking face reflecting a high degree of equally good humour. "Not me. I'm backstage, if anything. Luna says my presence overwhelms the scenery or some such nonsense; won't let me anywhere near the footlights."

He didn't, however, seem unduly put out by that. At all. Harry frowned. He was to be firmly on stage. Hermione, Ginny and Luna had been quite insistent about that. He blinked; he could use some back-up.

"Pity," he remarked. "Could use you, I think." He glanced about him, taking in two tables comprised of mainly witches. "Looks like we're woefully short of men."

"Well," Nev temporized. "Luna's been telling me—"

"Oh, Harry!" Hermione leant across the little gap between tables. Lavender sat opposite her and Ron had been just a moment ago, but he was up the bar now, ordering another round of chips from Hannah Abbott. "Funny you should mention that."

Hermione grinned at him, with her 'I know a secret you don't know!' face on. Harry played along; Hermione did so love that feeling and he was happy enough to keep her happy.

"Really?" He quirked his eyebrows quizzically, feigning utter ignorance. He knew a few secrets, too, but likely they weren't the same ones. "Why?" He waved a hand at all the familiar—Ginny, Parvati, Lavender, Pansy—but definitely female faces and shrugged a shoulder. Males attached to the gaggly group of Unnamed Players were minimal, as in there were very few of them. No wonder the girls had cajoled him into participating—they needed actors something fierce.

"There's only me, Zabini and Goyle here, Hermione. Hate to say it but I don't think that'll fly. Need actors too, you know. Need more guys."

"And one more," Hermione giggled. "We've got one more already, Harry," she nodded sloppily, on her way to slightly toasted. "A ringer. You'll be…you'll be surprised, Harry," she added, choking happily on her gin fizz. "Absolutely."

Harry cocked his head at her.

"Yeah?"

"Oh, yes," Hermione grinned wickedly, eyes sparkling. "He's Luna's special catch-oh, along with you, of course. We've been keeping him a secret, actually." She leaned a bit closer, revealing a rather nice chest and mumbling in what she likely thought was sotto voce, being on her second fizz of the hour, but really wasn't. They could've head her loud whisper in the private rooms Tom kept upstairs. "Didn't think he'd bite, really. Surprised he did."

"Why? Who is it, Hermione? Someone special? Someone who can boast maybe even a little bit of actual experience?" Harry glanced about him, at the assembled—and not very promising—group of Nameless Players. "'Cause I'm no actor and from the looks of it, we could use a real actor right about now. None of this group's ever done diddly on stage that I know of."

"But we all have, in a manner of speaking." Hermione giggled again, wetting her lips and jiggling her Friday evening cleavage, looking very mysteriously pleased with herself. "Metaphorically. And no, he's nothing like that, Harry, but. Buuut…"

"Yes, but?" Harry grinned at her. "Not good with suspense tactics, Hermione—you know that. Tell me who it is, then."

"He is, well…He's got…well, let's just say he's got a lot of charisma, Harry." Hermione looked terribly pleased with herself. "A. Lot. Of. Charisma. Buckets of it-bushels." She tossed her head for emphasis. "He's fit, too. And filthy rich. In fact, we'll be meeting at his place after this—tonnes of room there. And redecorated."

"Hmmm," Harry pondered.

Who was this mysterious man Hermione referred to? The troupe was supposed to be amateur, mostly. Or so he'd understood from Gin, when she'd twisted his arm, claiming they desperately needed him. 'Fit' men with charisma and buckets of Galleons were in obvious short supply tonight, unless one counted Zabini. It was true enough that bastard was fit—the blackguard radiated sex appeal like a bloody Chanel advertisement—but that was only one wizard amongst a veritable herd of bloody girls. No…it likely wasn't Zabini.

He shrugged again. "Whoever he is, he'd better be good at it, Hermione," he sneered mildly, not at all sanguine about the success of this mad idea of his three favourite women. "Or your Nameless Troupe is bloody sunk."

"Why, indeed, Potter," a silky voice murmured behind him, just off Harry's half-lifted shrug of disbelief. "I don't think that'll be a problem. Not now that_ I'm_ here."

"Oh, no, Hermione." Harry's eyes instantly went to his mate's merry expression in horror. "Not Malfoy?"

"The very same, Potter. So nice to see you again. A…pleasure."

"You must be joking me?"

Hermione waved him off saucily. "Of course not, Harry. Draco is perfect."

Harry wheeled his arse about on the bench, staring up over his pint with wild eyes behind his specs. The pint slopped and he sent a quick automatic spell to prevent the trickles of Butterbeer from trickling down his sleeve.

"Malfoy?!" he roared. "_Perfect _Malfoy?" He half-rose from his seat, in a response caught somewhere in the unknown territory between fight and flight. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

Malfoy—that unctuous prick—sent him a sly smile, one that revealed even white teeth and narrow pink lips, stretched thin.

"To save the day, Potter," he shot back, winking. His elegant robes revealed a very fit figure indeed, encased in raw silk and black denim. "Of course. Why else?"

"Ruin it, more like," Harry snarled. "Don't tell me you're Luna's 'secret weapon', Malfoy! I'll never believe it!" he stormed, slamming his pint down upon the table's smeared wooden surface. "That's ridiculous!" He turned accusing eyes to his best mate, who was goggling up at the two of them, and smiling like a silly bint, sod her. "Hermione!" Harry cried out. "What the fuck is up with this?"

"Oh, really, Potter," Malfoy shrugged and slid onto the unoccupied bench across from Harry, Neville having sidled away at some point. "You make too much of it, git. Lovegood requested. I, being a polite chap, unlike others of my acquaintance," and here he shot a sizzling, reapproving glare Harry's way, "agreed to aid a maiden in distress. Well, make that maidens, as there's dear Granger here and your Ginevra. That's all there is to it."

"Hah!" Harry snorted. "There must be a catch somewhere, Malfoy!" he accused. "You never do anything unless there's something in it for you—I can attest to that!"

He glared at Malfoy, who had the gall to smile sweetly at him and lift his goblet of Firewhisky in a silent toast.

"No catch," Malfoy replied mildly. Followed that with a wicked white grin, the sort that melted barmaids at twenty paces. "Just lending a helping hand, Harry. Out of the goodness of my heart, truly."

"Ha-Harry?!" Harry flushed fire-engine red in consternation. "How dare you address me as 'Harry', Malfoy? Besides, you're up to something, aren't' you?" He frowned suspiciously.

"Of course I am, Harry—acting, git." Malfoy raised a pale eyebrow at him, much in the manner of a matador. "But we're to work together, mate. Surely we can get over the past and be friends, now?"

"No!"

"Harry!" Hermione scolded. "Be nice."

"Yes, be nice, Harry," the git had the gall to repeat. He smirked. "I won't hurt you, I promise."

"Erk?" Harry was flabbergasted. Zabini he could barely wrap his head around yet, but Malfoy was a whole new kettle. He and Malfoy had never gotten along, really. Even after the war, there'd been a lingering sense of unfinished business between them, the few times they'd stumbled across one another at Diagon or at the Ministry. He'd never been so glad in his life to hear that Malfoy—oddly—had taken himself off to Romania to work with Charlie—of all people—at the dragon preserve.

"I don't twig," Harry announced flatly. "This makes no sense at all, in any universe."

"Oh, really? I don't see why not, Harry."

The git had the bollocks to sprawl back in his seat and unbutton his collar, whist Harry gulped air furiously, speechless, so appalled the aforementioned air whistled through his nostrils.

"Eh-er, what?" he demanded, nearly speechless. He sagged abruptly back onto the bench, feeling wobbly. "You're—you're really one of us now, Malfoy? Has Loony run mad?"

"Possibly," Malfoy allowed, his smirk segueing into a real smile. Harry's jaw dropped: git almost looked pleasant. And he was fit, yes, absolutely, but he was still a very—very—suspicious person. It would behoove Harry to remain wary.

"Hardly," Malfoy continued mildly. "She'd a need and I filled it, that's all. It suits, I think." He regarded his buffed nails with a certain air of satisfaction. Harry gamely swallowed back bile.

"Well, that's it in a nutshell, Harry," Hermione poked her pert nose in, grinning and flapping a hand happily. "Malfoy here's an accomplished singer, don't you know, and too, it's a wizarding family tradition, people putting on little plays to amuse their relatives."

"What-what?" Harry was gobsmacked again. "That—that's so archaic, Hermione! Bloody Middle Ages! You can't be serious?"

"Oh, very, Harry," Malfoy purred, his long fingers twiddling his collar buttons in a sly, 'come hither' manner. "Pure-bloods have many a fine and ancient tradition, Harry. Acting out little scenes to amuse each other in our drawing room is only one of them. Had to do something all those long winter nights, right? And dear Loony's only taking advantage to amuse the plebes in this time of cultural rebirth and rejuvenation—a fine and noble calling."

"You git! 'Fine and noble' my arse! Like you care about Muggles, Malfoy!"

"And of course I can act—practically cut my teeth on that bloody wizard Shakespeare, back in the day. Can sing a few bars, too," the git added smugly. "Likely more than you can, Harry."

"Gah!" Harry flapped his open-jawed mouth uselessly. "Grrr!"

Neville, who'd drifted back again and was standing, observing quietly, gave him a quick comforting whack across the shoulders.

"Buck up, mate," he advised serenely. "I think Malfoy here will be fine, don't you? Look how he managed to stave off old Voldie's Legilimency all those years, yeah?" he said. "Good Occlumens makes an excellent actor, yeah? Stands to reason. He'll likely make a fine addition to the Troupe, really. Natural actor and all that. Just what's needed."

"Nrgh!" Harry shook his head from side to side, wordlessly. Apparently this was a given; Harry would be forced to deal with the obnoxiously fit—and charismatic!—prick across from him, whether he willed it or not. "No!" he whimpered. "Say it ain't so!"

"It's so, Harry," Hermione nodded. "Already settled, right and tight, so, er—give up your posturing, alright? War's over with. That's the whole point here."

"She's right, mate," Nev nodded. "T'is a new era, thanks to you."

"Argh!" Harry moaned, flapping his hands about. "This can't be happening to me!"

He dropped his wrinkled forehead into one hot palm, rubbing it frantically to ease the migraine that approached like a runaway lorry.

"So dramatic," Malfoy smirked. "You're a natural already, aren't you? Won't have much to teach you then, will I?"

"Teach-_teach_ me?" Harry whipped his head straight back up on his neck, staring aghast at his nemesis. "What d'you mean, Malfoy—'teach _me_'?" he demanded, flapping his hands so much so he nearly sent his pint flying off the table. "I'm not having you for a tutor! I don't even have revision!"

"But you do, Harry. You do."

Malfoy grinned. He'd three buttons undone, revealing the beginnings of a very nice chest, and his robes had been shrugged off altogether. He was the very picture of a leading man, Malfoy.

"I'm your drama coach, Harry—didn't you know?"

Hermione giggled again, nodding; Harry resisted the strong urge to smack her.

"Er, _what_?"

Malfoy sent him another of those reproving frowns of his, the superior sort.

"But, now that I've seen you again, Harry, I do rather think we'll need to work on your vocabulary first," he smarmed. "It's abysmal. You seem to be stuck solidly on words of one syllable when you emote naturally. That'll never do when you're called upon to soliloquize. It must come from the heart and it must be sincere."

Harry only stared at him, whilst Hermione continued her bout of half-stifled giggles.

This was awful, what had been done to him by the three women he considered his closest female mates. Pairing him up with Malfoy? It was Potions class all over again, by Godric! They'd do nothing but snipe at one another, he and Malfoy—Harry was certain of it.

"I think we'll have to begin sooner rather than later, Harry," Malfoy cocked his pale head, clearly mulling. "You'll stop by at mine after this and we'll get started, alright? Brilliant," he added when Harry only stared, mouth open. "I'll open the Floo for you. We can go together."

"Nrhgh."

Well, Harry did moan a bit, yes, but that was likely only in automatic response to Malfoy's undeniable charisma—which the git was revealing, one tiny pearlized button at a time.


	7. S1, Act 1, Scene 4 Erised-the-Ex

**Stage 1, Act 1, Scene 4. **Malfoy Manor, South Ballroom, some weeks after the Scene at the Leaky. Rear-stage right side is a two-riser broad dais once used for a Wizarding orchestra. All the various and assorted Troupe Members are on this makeshift stage, in loose groups, gossiping and tending to theatrical tasks, excepting three. There is bustle, of a quiet sort, amongst the Company. Centre-stage is a huge and very familiar hunk of Old Magic, positioned between two marbled supported pillars, and it reflects, hazily, the three persons gathered before it—Malfoy Junior, Lovegood and Longbottom—as two of the three converse intensely in hushed tones. It reflects the figure of Harry Potter, entering front stage-right and in a flurry of scarlet robing and stompy boot heels, too.

* * *

><p>"Where in bloody hell did you come across<em> this<em>, Luna?" Harry pointed and gasped. He'd only just tumbled through the Floo and into Malfoy's ballroom and this—this horrible sight was the first thing that greeted him.

It was the Mirror of Erised, propped up between two ornately carved columns, and it shouldn't be plopped down here, in this place of once-hated memory. The two together—Manor and Mirror—were simply too, too much!

"What the fuck?" he wanted to know, shuddering with a sudden whipped-up fury and the lashings of remembered pain.

"What. The. **Fuck**?"

He fell back a pace, pointing accusingly at the Magical Miscreant. He'd been so lonely, then—so dreadfully lonely, and it was clearly to be seen in his twisted expression. "Send it back! Get it out of here, Luna!"

One of the small group of three turned her blonde head to glance at him briefly; the Wizards fell silent and raised curious eyebrows at Harry, fair and dark both.

"Oh, no, Harry." Luna cocked her chin at the Mirror, regarding it, ethereally vapid and sharp-set of eye all at once, as only she could manage. "I think it's rather alright now, Erised. I tested it, you see, when Neville found it. He tested it, too. It's fine. Oh, and Nev, my sweet Nev, pumpkin, we need to—"

Harry growled his frustration in Lovegood's general direction. For the short time he'd gained it, he'd already lost her flitting attention; she was knee-deep in rapt conversation with Neville again.

"It. Is. **NOT**. Fine!" he shrieked through his nose. His teeth clenched. He quite thought they'd crack, too. "It is an abomination, Luna! Vanish it, right now!"

"Hey, but...what's your problem, Hero Harry?"

Draco Malfoy, the quiet 'third man', came sauntering a step nearer Harry, hushed as the proverbial mouse in the pantry despite all his Purebred glamour. He quirked a quick wry lip at his latest arrival, but not maliciously. All about the lounging, at-ease in his demesnes, was Malfoy the Junior...and he was clad jauntily in a pair of fanciful house-slippers, something his angry guest noticed only peripherally, but noted all the same. Same as he noticed Malfoy was smiling at him as if glad to see him here, and in a great good humour, neither of which being a state of being which Harry was interested participating.

He snorted, his ire and agony building.

"_Problem_, you say!?"

"Something not right about this mirror?"

Harry, incensed and denied Lovegood, let loose on the closest available target.

"I'll say!" he barked stormily, giving up on Luna as a bad show and glaring daggers at his genial host. "This! This thing! It has to go, Malfoy!"

He pointed at it accusingly, hand shaking and wand with it, 'defense' in every line of posture.

"Yes?'

"Erised! Dumbledore stored it away, ages ago and for good reason!" Harry growled, aghast that his sole attentive audience of one only looked upon him with a mild sort of curiousity, making no move to rectify the situation at hand. "I'm serious, here! It's bloody dangerous; sucks you right in! It needs to be cast out, right this instant! You don't want it in your damned Mansion, Malfoy. Trust me on that!"

"Why, Potter?" Draco widened those speaking grey eyes of his in a show of honestly innocent surprise. 'I have no clue' was what he projected, and an upturned palm only emphasized that emoting. "It just arrived this morning and Loony really wants it here; was insistent. For Lavender's use, I think. Costuming, you know." He shrugged. "And maybe for rehearsals, for the actors to see how they look. And the wards let it through without contest. It's not pinging them. I don't see the problem, sorry."

"It's a Magical Item, Malfoy!"

Harry was well nigh spitting, he was so upset. Why would no one listen? Not even Malfoy, who should be able to recognize an Evil Magical Item every time? For fuck's sake!

"Yes? Okay? Plenty of those, here." Draco gestured about him. There were indeed, and that wasn't even counting the props assembled.

"A very highly dangerous Magical Item!" Harry scowled. "You know all about that sort, right? Don't you?"

"And?" Malfoy looked blank. "I'm not sure I follow?"

"Oh! Forget it! Luna! Luna, _listen to me_!"

Harry, mad of eye, spun 'round to confront both his daft female friend and the quietly looming bulk of good old steady-as-a-rock Longbottom, waving his arms at them even though they stubbornly didn't so much as spare a glance his way, so intent were they upon each other.

"Listen to me! Luna, what were you and Nev thinking?" Harry shouted, despite that. Because of it, more like. "Luna Lovegood! This is the bloody Mirror that shows you all you desire, okay? Not what's r**eal—**what you _desire_! Get it? It's not good!"

Infuriated, he grabbed at his friend's bent elbow, giving it a good shake.

"See how that could be a very bad thing, Luna?"

Wild eyes swung betwixt and between each of the three others about him, but only one was actually listening, it seemed. Because Lovegood clearly wasn't, chattering on and on about painted backdrops, and Neville the prat was concentrating only on Looney, the alien girl in tight clothing.

"Malfoy? Yes? Are _you_ listening to me, now? I hope so!" Harry waggled his eyebrows meaningfully at the only person who seemed to care he was pitching a fit in public; Malfoy shrugged back in puzzlement, his own eyebrows arching ever higher. "No?"

Then, back to Nev, his old friend in Gryffindor.

"Oh, hell, Nev? Neville Longbottom, by Merlin's saggy bollocks, come on now! Take your eyes off Luna's cleavage and pay attention!"

Neville, the twat, remained deaf as a post, his lips moving but no words issuing. Harry might as well have ceased to have existed.

Harry did stamp that foot. Loud as the crack of gunshot.

"Oh please, you guys! It's—it's not a good show, not ever a good show, seeing before you every damned day what you can't have and what you never will have! And the Mirror simply can't be allowed to remain, just for anyone to look into, to maybe see—people will be harmed!"

"Good gods, Potter," Malfoy murmured, glancing warily at his fellow thespians, "you're really a bit of a drag over that old thing, aren't you?" He cocked a thumb at the Mirror from Hell.

P'raps it was the level of general excitement Harry was generating in the very air molecules about him that finally captured Luna's attention again; Harry didn't care. He only breathed a sigh of relief over it, pleased.

"Oh, there you are, Harry; I was wondering where you'd got to." But Lovegood deigned to cease her all-engrossing theatrical natter with Neville for only the one instant. She spent it patting Harry's arm kindly and smiling at nothing much in particular. Then she turned away, various bits of fabric swirling. "Good to see you, thanks for coming. Nev, _I_ think—"

"Luna!" Harry exclaimed, determined. "Now, look, Luna—about Erised? It can't—you can't—Make it go away, damn it! You brought it here; heave it out, will you? It cannot stay! Luna? Luna!"

"Shush!" Luna cast him an all-forgiving glow and a little elbow-nudge Malfoy's way, brushing him off. "Don't be silly, Harry; it's mostly harmless, it is. Now, talk to Draco; he's been waiting on you for ages, for your lessons. Here, Nev, what I'm wanting next is—and then the thing we talked about? You know the _thing_-thing? Can you do it?"

And then she was gone off again, off helter-skelter into a flood of staging technicalities with Nev nodding left and right and looking very interested in all she said, entirely enraptured, leaving Harry abandoned to a renewed swelter of ire.

"Luna!" he moaned, disregarded and knowing it. "Luna!"

"Here, no. Don't do that. What, Potter?"

Draco Malfoy, on the other hand, drew nearer Harry still, but he wasn't reacting the way he should've, nor the way he used to, before, in the Bad Old Days...not in Harry's professional opinion. He was still smiling at Harry faintly, though the twist of his mouth was laced with...was that 'concern'?

"Look, never mind _her_; she's barking. Tell _me_, alright? What is this about, now? What d'you mean, when you said it 'shows you all your desire'? Why would people be injured by something like that? I should think it would be really super, having a mirror show me what I want. I mean, I'd like to know for certain what it is I require out of life, even if _you_ don't. It's a good thing, really; brilliant. And you? You have to relax, mate. Don't get so worked up about it."

"Re-Relax?" Harry stuttered, appalled, eyeballs rolling back in his head. "Whaaat? How can I relax with this thing here? Are you fricking crazy?"

"Huh." Malfoy threw out an arm to indicate the Mirror. "Perfectly sane, thanks, by all reports, and I still don't see the problem. Where's the harm in having a goal? More than that, a visible one? Something to, ah, set your sights on, as it were? Oh, oi!" He chuckled softly at Harry's horrified expression, tipping his head towards to the elegant frame so that tendrils of white-gold hair dangled rakishly before one wintery eye. "Hah! It's a bit fun, yeah? And but think of all the _pun _we could have with it, too. Like a captive Fortune-Teller thingy-ma-jig, the ones they have in those Muggle funfairs, but right here in Malfoy. Um..Harry? 'Pun'...I said." He stuck a quick elbow into Harry's heaving ribcage, watched him gape in outrage. "I did say...er, d'you follow? That was a joke, you know? Not much of one, sorry, Harry, but still...and all."

"**GAH**!"

"Pardon?"

"You arsehole!"

Harry faced up to the tentatively grinning Malfoy like some bloody mad top, vibrating with anger, literally.

"You utter nincompoop! Oh, my-effing-fracking-fucking gawds, could you manage to be even a little serious, for once? No—_be_ fucking serious, Malfoy. For me, for my sake! This is no joke, this, far from it. And yes, of course it's fascinating, it's Erised; no one claims it isn't, that's the whole point—but it's bloody fucking poison, is what. It'll suck you in if you look at it for too long a time, just like it did me, alright, okay? _Alright_? Do you hear what I'm saying to you? The Mirror saps you, of all your strength—your free will! Your _choices_, damn it. And no mercy; you won't want to stop looking into it. No, you can't stop looking, no matter what you do. Malfoy, I'm telling you for once and for all, people have up and died because of this Mirror! Died, damn it! It has to go, right now!"

"Right now?" And unabashed Malfoy only crinkled his pale forehead. "...But, Potter—it only just arrived. And...it's bloody _furniture_."

"No! Just stop! Don't bother, alright? Luna? Luna will know." Harry lunged again towards the girl, planting himself firmly between she and Neville and before her beguiling nose. He gripped furiously but carefully at the thin bared shoulders rising swan-like and very attractively above the artistically-sagging boatneck muslin smock she wore. "Luna? Can you see me? Nod if you can, that's it. Please?"

She blinked at him, pale blue eyes not seeing a thing.

"...Maybe a backdrop instead," she muttered. "For the fire scene...and then, for the grand entry...hmm..."

"Right, okay. Nev?" Harry spared a worried, frantic glance but the man was in a fugue state, it seemed, his mind elsewhere apparently as he stared off into a far corner, tapping a forefinger to his chin and mumbling some nonsense about dry ice incantations and devices. "No good—oh, forget it. Sod you, mate. **Luna**. Listen."

Harry resigned himself to focussing on convincing the one important person, the instigator, at least, even if the other two were variously uncaring of all his sound-and-fury. Well...Malfoy might very well be interested, but he wasn't leaping to actually do anything useful about it. It clearly feel to Harry to fix this abomination!

"Luna!"

"Ooh...?" With a start, Lovegood seemed to come to. Again. "Oi?" One could never tell, not with her. Nonetheless, she smiled at Harry, sweet as pie with whip. "Hey...Harry? What's that matter with you? Something up? You should be at practise, right?" She frowned gently. "I swore Granger had 'Practise' on the sched—"

"Yes? Great!" Harry steadied himself as he continued to clutch at her, breathing rapidly and easing slowly up on his grasp, careful not to snag her wildly cascading hair. "Good!" He drew his hands away at last, as though releasing the rock he'd been clinging to in some metaphorical torrent. "Are you with me, here? I've something to say to you."

"What, Harry? Tell me." She, contrarily, seemed entirely unaffected by his emotional dissarray, only regarding him mildly. "I'm all ears...well, no." She smiled. "Not really. That would be pretty ugly, wouldn;t? But go on?" It was infuriating, yes, but not near as infuriating as Malfoy's nonchalance. "Speak; I'm listening."

"Yes, do tell," Malfoy urged, bending his head nearer, as if to eavesdrop. "More, at least. Of your reasoning. I'm...interested in what's got your wind up, Potter. You're not normally so...well." He coughed, loking briefly discomfitted.

"Shut up, Malfoy; not now," Harry hissed. "Luna! Luna, it's like this. Erised?"

He gathered himself together with a great sigh and stuggled to speak calmly ansd reasonably. He felt so in earnest, so deathly determined, he quite thought it was pouring out from his pores, setting up the stink of fear in the air about them.

"I know about this one," he said, glancing down at his own hands. "You see?" They were shaking, so he curled them into fists and faced up to it manfully. "It's what nearly ruined my life, back in our First Year. With Quirrel...the Stone, and then because of Voldemort being after me, remember? Dumbledore had to take the Mirror away in the end and hide it or I'd have stayed looking at it forever, Luna. And so—it's this."

"Hmm, Harry?"

Harry drew a deep cleansing breath, shaking off the memories. There was no time to dwell now.

"And so," he sighed, "what I'm telling you is you simply must send it back to Hogwarts, or where ever it came from—and now, not later, not when you get 'round to it, alright? But now. This instant. Stuff it back into whatever hole you and Nev dragged it out from; stick it down in the bloody dungeons or in the—in the old Room, I don't care which or where, but far, far away from everyone you know, Luna—from us! Really, I don't care where it goes, bloody well burn it if you want—but it cannot stay here! It musn't!"

"But, Potter? It's...I don't understand you."

Malfoy's tone was genuinely puzzled. He'd stepped up to stand close by Harry's side and thus only a few feet back from the offending pier glass. He peered at it sidelong, as if at some strange new species of dragon had just presented him...and he was considering if it might be inclined to bite, but concluding all the while just as likely wouldn't.

"Shut it, will you please?" Harry snarled at him, retreating. "Malfoy, for god's sake, don't get in my way here!"

"There's nothing unusual, though," Malfoy went on, musing aloud and openly staring at Erised. "It's only a mirror. That's all it is. Look, Harry." He pointed a forefinger, indicating the image shining clear and unwavering back at them. "See for yourself, yeah? It's only you and me there, right? And the ballroom. behind us. And Looney, and Longbottom. And...then everyone, all of us. Exactly as it should be. There's nothing there other than that, nothing out of place. I don't follow with exactly why you're so—"

"Harry?" Neville chimed into the four-square equation, for the first time. "Draco's right. It's all good, Erised. It's only a plain old pier glass now, like any other one."

"What?" Harry spun to face his childhood nemesis, startled. No—the other one. The one Headmaster had chided him for being taken in by, and had whisked away subsequently. "What, all good, is it? I don't think so, mate! Just look—look!"

"...Look?"

"Yes, look!" Reluctantly, he peered at it too, the Mirror. He'd avoided really staring at it from the moment he'd realized what it was—mortally afraid he'd see all those he'd lost. His parents, Sirius...everyone. Snape, even. Sneering and such, but Snape. He'd even missed him, the old bastard. But...but?

But sure enough, it was only him and Malfoy reflected in the smokily silvered glass, with Nev and Luna on the very edges, blurrily and the group beyond—and that was what actually _was: _Harry and Malfoy, standing before it, gazing.

"That can't be!"

Still...it was. The bloody Mirror had trumped him, simply via basic reflection.

"Harry?" Luna cocked her head, ringlets of blonde hair cascading down as she twisted nimbly to flap an arm before his wrinkled-up nose. "_It is_. We tested it, remember? I had said to you, just now; maybe you didn't hear? But it's okay, Harry, really. We wouldn't do anything so stupid as what you're thinking, not with a living Object. The Mirror's dead now, Harry. It's just...dead. Caput. Not even sleeping."

"What?" Harry gasped, disbelieving. "No!"

Had the Mirror actually up and lost its purpose, its Magic?

Harry pondered that for instant before shaking his head.

No. Not possible; he knew from Aurors the Old Magic never let go, never.

"I…don't understand," he faltered, bemused and bewildered. "Malfoy, what is it _you actually _see in the blasted thing? What do you see beyond...other than what's obvious? Tell me!"

"Well, if you insist." Malfoy cleared his throat, standing taller than ever."Ahem."

"I insist!"

"Umm."

The man considered carefully, looking over the image of the two of them, standing, Harry with hands behind his back, Draco with his casually ticked in his denim's pockets.

"Well?"

"Right. Again, nothing much out the way, Potter. There's the usual chairs lined up against the wall." Draco made sure to point them out. "There. And the pianoforte. And see? There's Brown and her minions and then some others who've joined up, don't kow them all, sorry, but trotting about all the same. The Floo going—see the flames? That's likely Granger coming along; she said she would earlier. And you, Potter. Looney. Me. Longbottom. That's it."

He shrugged.

"Nothing more? Nothing...odd? Weird, strange...different?"

"No."

"I! I...?" Harry shook his head over it. "I...don't."

Nothing was as it should be...nothing!

"Potter?" Malfoy made a noise, a soft half-whistle emerging from his pursed lips, eyebrows cocked in gentle query as he returned his gaze to meet Harry's anxious green one. Humped a sloping shoulder and grimaced. "Harry, look. If this thing was magical at some point, well, I'd wager maybe it's broken beyond repair now. Headmaster Dumbledore nixed it, you said? Well, he was pretty powerful, remember? Or perhaps Hogwarts itself has nullified it in the meanwhile, somehow? Stranger things have happened, you know. I mean, there's a lot of reasons a Magical Object can lose its Magic. It's nothing unusual. You're all het up over not much of anything, I think. I don't believe you need be, now. It's just an old mirror, really; nothing special."

"Oi! Draco? You should call him Harry, Draco," Luna remarked, barging her smiling face in while Harry gawped at Malfoy's advice. "And Harry?"

He jumped. "Er?"

"You should address Draco as Draco. Really. It's only polite of you. Both of you."

"Erm?" Harry gulped, blinking. "Oh...kay?"

"Right, then, Looney." Draco pulled a face, a silly one, and gave Lovegood a mocking little half-bow. "'Harry' it is, then. Right..._Harry_. Not as though I haven't been, sometimes; did you even notice it, Lovegood? I've been all that is polite to my guests, I should say. So?" He smirked at her, but even Harry could see he was in a teasing mood. "You're barking up the wrong Whomping Willow, you know that? I've been a very decent sort, lately. You've even said more than once you like it, right?"

"That's true!" Lovegood smiled up at him sunnily, all sparkles. "You've been a trooper, Draco; always so helpful and pleasant. And you smile at me, too, and I don't even have to remind you." She patted Malfoy's arm and beamed up at him, as if he'd just done her some huge favour. "Thank you so much, Draco."

"Welcome, Lovegood," Malfoy beamed back, apparently caught up in a fit of uncommon mutual good will. "It's my pleasure, really. The Manor really appreciates having you all here; a little life in the old bones, yeah? Oh!" He swivelled his chin about towards Harry. "Ah, Harry. Time's wasting and we should be about those lessons, alright? You ready for me?"

"What? Hey! You!"

"Mmm?"

"That's it? That's all there is to it?" Harry, dumbfounded, was still stuck back on Malfoy's recounting of what he'd seen...or not seen, as the case apparently was. "Just...just this room, just us? Nothing else, _nothing_? Malfoy! Are you certain that's all you see in it?"

"Draco, Harry," Luna reminded him kindly. "Draaaa-coh! Like that."

"Uh-uh." Harry was treated to the very last remnants of Malfoy's shared Looney Luna-grin, a scintillating thing when spread about at random. He blinked at it. "Nope, nothing, sorry. Anyway, er...shall we?"

"I dont." Harry bent forward at the waist and clutched at his hair, frustrated. "I just don't..."

"It's alright; don't be so cross over it." Mafloy reached over to pat his back, shaking his head dolefully, a side to side motion that sent his trademark pale hair wafting gently. "It's just there's nothing out of the ordinary here, _Harry. _Not in Malfoy, not any longer. It's only an old mirror. Hasn't uttered a single word to anyone since Looney and Longbottom brought it, not even to tell Looney here to hike up her blouse when it fell down. Hasn't done much of anything to anyone other than take up space...and, ah. Reflect things."

"That's** not **what it does, Malfoy," Harry snapped, stomping closer to get a good look at the faded carving up the top of Erised. "It doesn't talk, git. It reflects!"

He stared, warily. But no. It seemed what Malfoy reported was true enough. Harry blinked and took of his spectacles to polish them, just to ensure they weren't smudged. He put them on again with the air of man who had unfinished business.

"Doesn't talk? Really? I thought they all did."

"Not all of them, twat! Bloody Magical Mirror, alright? Does what it wants, doesn't it? It's old and it's canny and it's devious when it wants to be, isn't it? Get with the programme! I'm not fucking with you, Malfoy; I'm worried!"

"Draco, Harry, dear!" Luna sang out. "_Draco_. Remember?"

Both Wizards ignored her.

"Oooh! Touchy, touchy, Harry; you're obviously super-sensitive, but, hey alright." Malfoy grinned. "Sorry. Didn't mean to keep pressing that last nerve of yours."

"Forget it," Harry returned shortly, back to examining every inch of Erised-the Ex. Which did nothing untoward at all to him in devious retaliation. He glowered at it, not trusting for an instant, and stared down his own frown suspiciously. "Doesn't matter, Mal—

"Draco, Harry."

"Er, Draco."

"That's nice," Luna nodded happily; Harry could see her in the Mirror. "Well done, you two; a much more natural effort. With practise...well. I am so pleased, yes? Aren't you pleased, too, Neville? Look how they're rubbing along now, Harry and Draco." She budged up to a thoughtful Neville, a taciturn spectator to the Harry-Draco-Mirror minor meltdown show all through. Harry made sure to throw a blistering scowl his way, recalling his utter lack of moral support earlier. "Isn't it pleasant?" Luna persisted. "I think it is. I do like it when people rub along. Everyone should, really. Let's all try it, okay? Okay!"

"But, Luna, wait. I can't..." Harry leant forward to touch the glass, but cautiously, as he'd been trained to do in Aurors. None of the wandless, wordless spells he'd been furiously sending the Mirror's way in the last moment or two had come back to him with anything at all. Nothing bad, at least. It was clean as a whistle, Erised. Harmless. "I just can't...quite...believe it. How could this be? How could it change so much? Do you know?"

No desire, no yearning, no pining away for what might've been. Only an fusty old piece of furniture, and yes, it was as Draco pointed out, a very large glass, expansive. Good for fitting costumes, good for a spot of self-rehearsal. Nothing more.

"Harry...?" Malfoy poked him gently on the upper arm; he'd never given Harry his space back, in all this time. "Harry, if it's truly upsetting you to that degree, I could maybe have it moved?" He glanced towards Luna, still bobbing her chin merrily. "You think Lavender would mind if I had it shifted, Lovegood? There's an anteroom next door, empty mostly. Can shove it in there and still have it accessible enough. Then our Harry here won't be forced to see it if he doesn't want."

"Oh, er? Thanks, Mal—" Harry flushed, embarassed but pleased. "**Oi**!"

"Oh, Harry," Luna had rushed Harry, to enfold him a shatteringly tight embrace. She was reassuringly herself, too; sharp again and not so vague, so Harry hugged her in return, gratefully. "Old Magic does that, at times. It eats itself up." As if Harry had not just had the shock of his life. "It _is _safe; you have accept that it is and move on. Naught but a big useful mirror—exactly what Brown requires for her sewing up. And remember? I told you before. Nev ran a wand over it first thing when he came across it at Hogwarts. Very first thing, Harry. And me as well, when he firecalled me and I stopped over to see it later-see if it would be suitable."

"Suitable?" Harry laughed bitterly. "Suitable! Hah! As if! Urgh!"

"It's clean and clear, believe me," Luna went on gently. "It was in one of those abandoned classrooms off the fourth floor corridor—you recall them, right? We all used to snog in them, back in the day. Just sitting there, minding its own business. It looked like it wanted to be useful, so of course Neville here thought of us. That's it, all there is to it, Harry. It's," she shrugged philiosphically, "just a prop now...maybe. Least, I think I can use for the Shakespeare play, you know the one, right?"

"...A prop, uh-huh. Right, okay." Harry nodded vaguely. Flushed a dark shade of crimson, too, because _he'd_ not had a great deal of time available to him back at Hogwarts for such vapid things as snogging. And, anyway, snogging had been wet and a little icky and, well. "Wait!" He shrugged, frowning, discomfitted. "Yeah? All those old classrooms were really used for snogging, Luna? I thought that was just Ron, talking out his arse."

She grinned at him, wide and brilliant. "Yes, of course they were, Harry. Didn't you know?"

Malfoy snorted quietly and meaningfully at Harry's elbow, but thankfully didn't pursue it. Harry manfully restrained himself from glaring at his host too, too balefully.

"It _was _lucky, really—I'd just been wishing for a glass big enough—"

Luna released him in a flood of chatter, going on and on about the lucky discovery. Harry tuned her out, peeking furtively.

Just behind him and to one side was Draco Malfoy, clad in jeans and a loose button-down shirt, elven-style leather slippers on his elegantly long, narrow feet.

"Hmm." Malfoy buzzed in his ear. "We'll have it out of here, yeah? I mean, you should be comfortable too, right? You're just as important as everyone else here, maybe more so, being the star power. And I was already thinking Lavender might require a more private space for her work."

"Yeah," Harry agreed, nodding. "Yeah—I guess. But...I'm not a star, Ma-er-ah. _Draco_. Least, not the only star, no matter what Looney might've told you."

"Okay, then." Beside him Malfoy smiled wide and shiny white. "Thanks." A charming expression that would doubtless earn him all the real kudos, Harry was sure, from all the ladies in the first night audience—and likely half the Wizards attending, too. The git really was very fit. There was no denying it.

"I'll ask the elves to move it out immediately, shall I? Then it won't bother you at all, Harry. You need to ease up, right? You've got a job of work before you, learning lines, mastering the 'business' and all the stagecraft bit. Can't have you suffering a breakdown, no. You'll have to be all dramatic for us for real soon enough."

"Yeah," Harry sighed, closing his eyes. "Sod it, I know. I do know...Draco." He huffed, noticing finally the ornate and very frilly costuming Lav was hefting as she brushed by them. "Great, super. Thanks for reminding me, git." He scowled. "I was trying to forget why I was even here."

"Speaking of, let's get on with that session, eh?" his tutor requested, taking Harry by an elbow. "We've not much time, now, and today's work is all taken from this quaint colonial play I've just discovered. American—so outré. It's fascinating, really, what they come up with across the Divide. _A Streetcar Named Desire; _have you heard of it?"

"Huh?" Harry jolted, pausing, catching the sparkle of fun in Draco's light eyes. "A streetcar named...erm, what, now? Exactly?"

"Desire. Ironic, mmh? Funny old coincidence, yeah? No?" He flipped his hair off his forehead when Harry didn't instantly chuckle along with him. "Hmm, right, sorry. Come along with me, then. We'll be outside today, I believe, on the balcony. You'll be called upon to shout a lot, and it's much quieter there. You can shout at the peacocks. They like it, rather."

"Oh, er," Harry's shoulders slumped as he was herded off to a set of French doors. "Whatever. Honestly, I feel a little like shouting now, so...let's just get this over with, alright? I hate to say it but I've paperwork still awaiting me, back at the office."

"Oh? That's a pity," Malfoy seemed cast down, suddenly. "We were planning to order in some Muggle tomato pie later from down the Village—have a little social, all together. Sure you can't stay for it? Not even one slice?"

"Well…." Harry, for some reason, instantly felt tremendously guilty. He stared at his boot tips, flushing. "Um?"

"Well!" Draco huffed triumphantly, pale gaze sharp and brilliant where it lingered. "One slice, then." He nodded once and shoved Harry right through the doors. "That's all settled, isn't it?"


	8. Stage 2, Act 2, Scene 1 The Doll House

**Stage II: **_The Doll House_

**Act 2, Scene 1. **Malfoy Manor, Family Quarters, South Wing, Lucius Malfoy's 'New' Study.

Present are Lucius Malfoy, aged fifty-odd: a tall man with the Malfoy signature hair and a certain air of a weary _savoir faire_. Clearly a man of the world and a wealthy one, Lucius Malfoy's face also betrays signs of a premature aging: there are pronounced wrinkles 'round his well-cut lips and traced across his pale, high forehead. He sports a very stubborn, somewhat angular chin, with a faint cleft to it, and extremely pale blue eyes—similar to his wife, Narcissa's, though she is not present on stage and it cannot be remarked by a viewer. Lucius is clad in semi-formal traditional robes of dark grey material over closer-fitting, well-tailored trousers beneath. His torso is garbed in a very fine lawn mint-green blouson-style shirting, with silken cord lacing at the throat and a faint frill to each flowing sleeve. His trousers are tucked neatly into knee-high riding boots of Horntail leather, highly polished, and he carries a set of matched riding gloves in one white well-kept hand and a short-handled wand in the other, bejewelled at the hilt and clearly Shrunken down from its regular proportion.

In the room also there is one Draco Malfoy, the only child of Lucius and Narcissa. His features bear this out; there are any number of similarities from father to son. Draco is sprawled across a tufted settee upholstered in a muted old gold fleur-de-lis printed silk, and is clad in Muggle-style clothing that contrasts vividly to his surrounds: pale blue, acid-washed button-fly denims in the latest Muggle fashion and a bright red tee-shirt, imprinted with the words 'Wizards Wield Wicked Wands—Wotcher?' He is barefoot, unshaven and has clearly not combed his hair after bathing—the same white-blond shade as his father's, it is, if not a hue lighter. His eyes are what could be called 'grey', but are actually a changeable colour that absorbs pigment from his surroundings. They are narrowed upon his father's face at the moment and the whole of the young man emanates a sense of vibrant energy—and a welling up of slight, politely stifled ire.

* * *

><p>"I don't think so, Father," the younger Malfoy drawls languidly. "I invited them here and I'm not running them off. It's as much as my job's worth."<p>

"It's ridiculous!" Lucius Malfoy paces, swishing his foreshortened wand so that it slaps against the leather of the gloves he carries. "Our home is not a circus, Draco! We do not play host to any riffraff off the street! I demand that you tell them all to take themselves off at—"

"No, Father." Draco's tone is flat. His features take on a decidedly determined cast; the chin he shares with his sire is firm and thrust out proudly, for all that the lines of his twenty-something self remain relaxed and at ease. "I will not. This is my home, too, Father—I nearly died to keep it so. And this is work I've taken on for myself, so deal. I'm not telling them anything, thank you."

"Draco!" Lucius huffs. "I don't believe you quite understand me. This is our home, Draco—our castle, as it were. I will not have it invaded by the likes of those ruffians you spend your time with, job or no job!"

"Why not, Father?" Draco flaps a set of pale fingers, long and well-articulated. "Mum's alright with it. And they're hardly in your way; a whole regiment could lose themselves here. I don't see the problem."

"Draco," Lucius Malfoy lowers his voice to a hiss, coming to a halt and glaring at his heir. "Just because your poor deluded mother has agreed to this does not make it somehow palatable. Again, send these people on their way. Pack up all their gee-gaws and whatnots and toss them out. I'm sure they can find some other meeting place for this appalling hobby you've taken up—just not here, Draco!"

"Father," Draco sighs. "Get with the times. First you want me to play nice with the Muggle-borns and so forth—act like we've been alright with it all along. Then you want me to slither my way into the Ministry—maybe take up your old position? I don't think so—they trust me as far as they can hurl me, and that's the truth, Father. You know it."

"Well, really, Draco," Lucius huffs, again. "I'm certain that if you would just apply yourself for once—"

"I am, Father," Draco cut in neatly, surgically. "That's just it. I am. You and your bloody Dark Lord dealt me a lousy hand. I've got to make the best of it—and this is the best. I can only get so far wrestling dragons. So, er—deal. Just let me do what I need to do."

"But that git Potter's here, Draco!" Lucius comes as close as he ever allowed himself to wailing. "And he's perfectly ghastly, as usual. No manners whatsoever, and I really don't care whether his childhood experience was troubled, such matters are still important. Even the bloody Muggles have some sort of proper behaviour—"

"Have you ever thought, Father," Draco finally sits up straight, planting his hands on his knees and staring challenging at his papa, "that perhaps he does not like you? That he's rude for a reason? Because he's not, otherwise. Not at all, Father. It's only you, really."

"What does that mean, Draco?" Lucius demands. "You're saying this is deliberate? And in my own home, when I've not even formally invited him? That's—that's absolutely unacceptable!"

"Dad, Dad, come on," Draco very seldom addresses his _pater familias_so familiarly; that he has done so now is an indication that not all is quite so unperturbed beneath his mellow, casual exterior. "You tried to off him, Dad. He doesn't like you, alright? That's the end of it and you have no say about it."

"Excuse me?" Lucius sneers. "I very much have a say, Son. I can ward him out in an instant-and don't think I won't!"

"Maybe you can, at that," Draco nods, "but that doesn't help us, Dad. It doesn't help me and it won't make it any better in the long run. You'll just perpetrate the same old shit that got us into this mess in the first place. I said before, Dad—deal. Get over it and deal. This is the way it is now."

"And you go along with it, Draco? Just like that?" Lucius's voice is venomous. "Where is your Malfoy pride, Son? Are you a fan of Potter's now, just like every other hoodlum and Mud—"

"Don't say it, Father!" Draco's voice is a whipcrack; it slices neatly through the hateful word 'Mudblood', dissecting it to shreds and ribbons. "Or_ I_won't be responsible—not now, not any more—never again. And neither will Mum. You know how she feels about that, Father."

"I haven't the faintest idea of what you're talking about, Draco," Lucius snorts, "But in my day, a young man did well when he paid heed to his father's advice—"

"That's exactly the trouble, Dad," Draco retorts. "I've been there and done that and look where we are now, yeah? I can't find a real job here; you're effectively forcibly retired from any political life and Mum is shunned half the time when she goes out to the shops. Not even the Continent is the way it was, once, Father—you seem to have conveniently forgotten that!"

"Draco, Draco, Draco," Lucius sighs, moving at last from his looming stance over the settee that holds his son. He strolls to the windows—large floor-to-ceiling ones, French-hinged—and gazes at the view of the Malfoy lands, rolling peaceably off in the distance. "It is you who forgets. We have always been proud, Draco—and we have always been careful of whom we associate with, lest they bring us harm—"

"And?" Draco springs to his feet, slipping silently after him on the silken geometric weave of an antique Arabian carpet. "And that's what you've managed to do, Dad? Associate only with the very best of wizards? I don't think so!"

"No," Lucius sighs once more, and this time heartfelt. Turning slightly, he drops his gloves and wand upon the polished surface of his great desk. "No, Son. I have not. I have failed miserably, which I suppose was to be expected. I was not the first child my mother bore, you recall? It was my elder brother who was meant to steer us all safely. And I've no doubt he would have made the correct choices. I, sadly, did not."

"Uncle Gideon?" Draco frowns. "But he died so young? How—what?"

"Nevertheless, it was my brother Gideon whom Father choose to train, Son. When he…passed, I was but a poor second-best. The spare, Draco. That's what I was born to be and still am. Gideon was the one my father poured all his hope and love into—Gideon. When he…died, my father was a broken, damaged man. He no longer cared whom he harmed or offended. He was mad, I think—at the very end. Hated the entire world, you see."

"Why? What happened? You've never spoken of this before. Not at any length, at least, and Mum knows very little. I've only ever seen his picture, heard his name mentioned in passing."

"Draco, my boy, you're very like him, you know," Lucius smiles, all the lines about his light eyes crinkling in fond pride. "The spitting image, more like—in every way."

"How so? What d'you mean?"

Lucius sighs, shrugging. A hand is flung out, as it to spread an imaginary scene before the wondering eyes of his son—to tell a story, just as Lucius had done often when Draco was but a child in rompers.

"Gideon was kind, Draco. My brother was kind and stalwart, gallant and honourable as the first-born son of a great House should be. If Arthur's Court were still amongst us, my brother would sit but a step below that blackguard Lancelot, he was that noble. But he died—tragically—and it fell to me, and I had only ever been spoilt, Son. I hadn't been expected to make much of myself. There was no need to, really."

"How did he die, Dad?" Draco persists. "Was it to do with a Muggle, perhaps? Because I can't help but think—"

"Exactly so. A Muggle wheeled carriage struck him, quite by accident, mid-Apparition in the High Street of our little Malfoy-on-Lea. A Muggle man of medicine got to him first but he knew nothing of St Mungo's, nothing of wizarding ways of healing. He could not save Gideon—the blow was to his chest and throat and crushing. There was no time. He died in that Muggle's arms, spitting blood, not a half mile from home."

"Ah," Draco remarks. "Yes, then—I see, I think. When Grandfather discovered it—"

"He killed the man, nearly razed the village—and Muggles and Muggle-borns were an anathema to our family after that day. My father raised me—I was still quite young, you realize—to hate and despise them….as I have raised you. But that was not Gideon's way, Draco. It was not, as I found out far too late and to my shame, _his_way. He'd not have wanted it."

"It changed the world, didn't it?" Draco tilts his head. "If he'd lived, the Malfoys never would've thrown all our support in with the agents of the Dark. We'd not have been Death Eaters."

"Perhaps not," Lucius shakes his head, clapping a gentle hand upon his son's collarbone. "Perhaps we would have still. The Death Eaters were not always the tools of He Who Must Not Be Named. I don't know."

"Voldemort, Father," Draco slides in neatly. "Call him that—or call him Tom Riddle, as Harry does. He's gone."

"Yes, yes he is," Lucius nods. "And I must admit to a certain fine sense of gratitude for your Potter. But what I do know, Draco, is that my father instilled a great sense of grievance in me, as soon as he possibly could. And that was the feeling of the time, Son. When Riddle first came into power. The Blacks, the Goyles, the Notts—all of the old families had some bone or another to pick with Muggles and Muggle-borns, large or small. We fell for the Dark Lord's words with a will and a fine sense of fervour, Draco—that was no blind mass hysteria, Draco. We were not tricked into following him. No. We allowed it."

"But it could've been different, right, Dad? If Uncle Gideon had lived…or if Grandfather had not hated Muggles so. Or if you'd not become a Death—"

"Son," Lucius smiles gently at the tall young man next to him, who stands shoulder to shoulder and has his chin properly raised and his spine straight, as a Malfoy's ought be. "Son, it is passed, all of it. My choices, my brother's death—Tom Riddle. And you are correct, the future awaits us—nay, it is here, on our doorstep and perhaps it's not as golden as I once conceived it to be. But we have certain standards, Draco—rules we follow, as you know—"

"If you're asking me to boot Harry Potter, Father, I've said I will not do it." Draco sets his lips to a thin line, crossing his arms before his chest. "Forget it."

"Perhaps not, then," Lucius sighs. "But have a care, Draco. He may seem as beguiling as the Dark Lord did, long ago, when I was first introduced to him, but…"

"But nothing, Father!" Draco starts, almost as though he might stomp a bared heel into the plush carpet. But he does not. Manners forbid it. "He's nothing like your Voldemort—he's more than proven that. He saved my arse, Father—he didn't need to do that! You still have me only because Harry bloody Potter took pity, Dad—remember?"

The hand on Draco's shoulder tightens painfully. Lucius winces, rocks back a pace as if to set a little distance between himself and his son.

"Oh, I remember, Draco. I cannot forget—and I will be forever indebted. That does not mean that I admire him, nor his ways. I do not wish to be friends with his friends nor engage socially with him. I do not wish to see him in my home, Draco—but."

"Yes?" Draco's brow rises, in an arc that matches his father's exactly. His voice is grim.

"I will 'deal', Son." Lucius sends Draco a rueful twist of lips, barely more than a grimace of acknowledgement. "As you've requested."

"Good," Draco says promptly, and follows up just as promptly with a question. "Why, Father? Why is that, if you're so dead-set against him and his 'ways' and friends and all that guff—_why_?"

"Draco—my son," Lucius does smile this time, and fondly, his pale blue eyes darkening with pupil, "I had a brother named Gideon, remember? And you're very like what I recall of him—and you deserve at your age to make a few of your own decisions, without us elderly folk hampering you."

"Dad—"

Lucius raises his other hand swiftly, palm flattened, as if to staunch all the words that visibly tremble before his son's parted lips.

"Draco, your mother has counselled me and I am not, despite appearances, entirely either a fool nor an old stick. But I ask that you have a care, nonetheless. I know of your...proclivities, Draco—"

"That's hardly-!"

"I know, Draco," his father speaks over him, "and there are ways to deal with that. The Malfoy line will continue. Never fear. But do not, as the old saying goes, place all your Humdingers in the one green glass bottle, please. Have a care, Draco. He may not, er…feel...for you what you require of him. I am concerned that you will be disappointed."

Draco spins away from the window and his father's grasping fingers, paces the carpet in a smooth flurry of muted molten hue, his motions cat-like but jerkily disjointed, all at once. He comes to a sudden halt before the study door, a dark slab of wood that speaks of ages past, bound as it was with wrought iron hinges and a great hunkering lock. Clenches his two hands into loose fists at his sides and tosses his elegantly moulded head defiantly, though his father remains still behind him, saying nothing.

"I know that," Draco replies flatly. He curls his lip at the door. It screams of the safety to be found in a fortress, for Malfoy Manor despite all its clean Norman notes architecturally, and despite all its pretty Frenchification, is precisely that at heart: a fortress. Designed to keep its inhabitants locked up tight and the world at bay indefinitely.

"I know, if anyone does."

If there is a blood traitor to that fine tradition, arguably it could be the current Malfoy heir—and he is well aware of it. Opening the bastion and allowing them all to stream in; to make use and make merry—it is his fault and his responsibility. But sometimes even the air stagnates; things have to change—his eloquent shrug says as much.

"I accept it, too, Father," Draco swallows hard and glares at the iron knobs. "I take responsibility for all that happens, as well—or will occur. He may not—or he may. I don't know. I haven't a clue either, Dad. I don't. I only know I will not step back from this. This is our chance. My chance. My choice—my life. Alright, Dad?" He gulps again, blinking, and places a steady hand upon the heavy latch, raising its oiled bar. The cold metal warms immediately against the half-moon indentations in his palm, where his own nails have bitten into flesh.

"Son…Draco."

"For once?"

"Fine, fine!" his father hisses, scowling. "Do as you wish, then, and never mind the consequences! But don't blame me if—"

He pauses, as if expecting an explosive reply—a tantrum, perhaps, or a fury of youth. But his son stands quiet and does not turn back. His shoulders speak eloquently for him, as does the unyielding line of his long spine. He's grown one; he's keeping it, thank you—or so his Father sees, at long last.

"Right, then. On your own head be it, Draco. You've made your bed, I see."

Lucius heaves a great breath, falling elegantly into his padded, carven desk chair, the same that had enthroned him in his old study. He stares at his son's rigid spine from the depths of its enfolding safety and raises a palsied hand to shield his eyes, rubbing his furrowed brow.

The sight of his son's set shoulders and proud head awaits him, stark and silent, his slender figure an effigy before the scarred, darkened wood.

"You're a damned fool, boy," he persists. "This is all foolishness of the highest degree and I'm sure you'll suffer for it, whatever your mother may say!"

Not a sound escapes that still, tall form waiting by the exit; not by a single betraying flinch did Lucius' heir indicate he might turn back from his current course.

Lucius, shoulders slumping, fingers of one hand straying to his discarded wand where it lay carelessly splayed on his blotter, sighs and narrows his eyes at his only child. He shrugs.

"Yes…alright, then. As you wish, Draco—as you wish. I concede."

"Thank you."

The door closes soft as a whisper behind him as he pads out on bare soles, toes flexing with relief, with not even the faintest of creaks or screeches: a suitable punctuation point for the discussion that had seemed never-ending.


	9. S2, Act 2, Scene 2 A Backstory Vignette

**Stage II, Act 2, Scene 2. **The Odeon Stage, before the drawn red velvet curtains. _A Backstory Vignette_.  
>Before the swagged stage curtains is the bare bones set of A Bohemian Café, located in Diagon Alley. Four young ladies are seated about a tiny wrought iron table and just beneath the shelter of a scarlet-striped awning, the table cloth laden with an assortment of scones and teapots. The set is dark about them; faux fog wisps and laps about their sandal-clad feet and their assorted gaudily-painted (Pansy &amp; Luna) toenails. From off-stage the tendrils of smoky substance curl about the floorboards and lights, adding a dreamy ambience to this moment-out-of-time. Clearly, this is meant to be a flashback, of sorts. The audience—or some of them, at least—avidly consults their playbills, nodding as they sort it out.<br>Foreshadowing, then. Pleased, the sighing crowd settles in to observe carefully.  
>On the stage, the Three Witches (four, really, but Parkinson's more of an understudy, Classically speaking) consult the telling leaves of their ominous brews: several small stewed pots of café tea, kept hot with a charm.<br>"I don't like it—it's not right," Granger grumbles under her breath and gloomily. She picks at her scone with sullen fingers, ignoring the zephyrs and sunshine of an April morning that suddenly—startlingly—lights up their small segment of stage. "There's nothing right about it at all!"  
>With the coming of the full-out stage light, there's a murmur of voices to be heard, conversing all about them. The area to either side of their tiny table is all at once crowded with many extras, all nibbling away and sipping yet more tea.<br>"Pardon?" Plucked eyebrows rise; the Understudy has taken note.  
>"No. <em>He<em>, Parkinson. Pay attention, won't you?" Hermione Granger continues her monologue, with a scowl, "He's not right—I don't care what Ron says," she adds, prissily, doggedly. She's not stopped her frowning since the lights came up. "He isn't."  
>A full spot upon Granger's face does nothing to deter that pretty scowl, either.<br>"What's not right, ducks?" Parkinson's not officially part of the original group of Three but perhaps it was a chance meeting in Diagon that has brought her to their table. She's consuming a Wizarding version of a double Bloody Mary in deference to the hour in addition to the more harmless brew the others inhale in sips and swallows. The celery constitutes the meat of it, apparently. And she's just been visibly shuddering at the table-next-door's full English breakfasts, chockablock with heaps of greasy sausages and sunny-side up eggs. Pansy's the Sly Sidekick in this gathering, an Adjunct, and she clearly knows it—and is camping it up for her fair share of any attention to be grabbed in the offing despite it. "Who, rather? _Is_ it a who who's got your goat, Mummy dearest...er. Ah. Or a what? You said 'he'."  
>"Hmph!" Granger nearly flings her scone in a spate of fury. "<em>Mummy<em>! I am not a 'mummy' just yet, thank you!"  
>"Right, no. Not yet, at least." She's the good graces to blush guiltily when Granger's stabbing glower rests upon her. "Er, sorry," she mumbles. "About that. <em>Hermione<em>, I meant. Weasley, if you like."  
>"'Granger'," the lady is question is firm on the subject, "is proper. I've kept my professional name, <em>Parkinson<em>, as I _am_ a professional, thank you!"  
>"Fine and wonderful, Granger," Parkinson sniffs, "but you don't need take your filthy mood out on the rest of us. I wouldn't say that's 'professional'!"<br>The sunny April morning is threatened momentarily by a small storm cloud of a squabble when the blondest, most blue-eyed Witch at table murmurs musingly, "Mmm? What's it? Ngh?" and successfully diverts both parties.

"It's nothing," Granger snaps. "Just me, feeling concerned, alright? Nothing _important_."

"Oh, now."

Luna Lovegood—Chief Witch amongst them and sometime leader of this _ad hoc _Trio-plus-one—is busily constructing an assortment of crumb chunk-and-toasted currant dolmens on the tablecloth in a wobbly circle, having merrily dissected her morning muffin to particles. She coats the toasted pieces with butter dabs to make them stick together—using an errant curl of her waist-length blond hair as a pastry brush. It's odd but it's Luna and it's generally harmless; the others ignore her behaviour in favour of not-staring carefully Hermione's way, under sidelong glances filtred by heavily lidded lashes.  
>There's a small silence, as none of the other ladies really cares to tell Lovegood it's a matter of semantics. But Granger is yet visibly discontent and Pansy is still piqued.<br>She pokes the wounded lion right in the sore paw, finally. Unable to resist, apparently. "No, really. What isn't right? Granger? Don't be cryptic, now."  
>"Not <em>what<em>!"

Hermione growls deep in her chest, nearly taking a bite out of her teacup; she's been in this same state since she discovered she was expecting but a month before: completely mental, totally off-kilter, at times downright nasty and, much to the dismay of her husband and mates, terribly inclined to be horridly broody over the slightest of things. On the plus side, she's miles more efficient than ever. Everyone in her office at the Ministry is flat-out terrified of her. "_Harry_." It's a huff more than a civil reply. "_He's_ not right, is all. And _I_ don't like it."  
>"Oh, well. If that's all." Parkinson shrugs and flicks her celery stick, losing interest. "It's only Potter."<br>"Only!" Granger's eyes widen dramatically and it quite looks as though she'll go on to protest the 'only' but the last Witch, the youngest and the obvious Weasley, finally pipes up.  
>"Well. All right." Ginny has her practical streak, from Molly, no matter how much she declares she's only planning to have a great deal of fun from here on out, now the war's over. She waves her cup genially at her beetle-browed sister-in-law and turns on her coaxing smile. "If you don't like it, Hermie darling, what're you planning to do about it?"<br>"We should," Lovegood butts in, but dreamily, as if this conversation had no direction. "Us, that is." Perhaps it doesn't, really. "You. Me." She waves a buttered curl at them all. The other Witches subtly lean forward, ears perked. "But, then. Should…we?"  
>"Yes?" Ginevra, as the rudely interrupted party, is the one to enquire. "Luna?"<br>"No! Yes, we should." One by one heads 'round the table swivel to face her full-on: when Luna speaks, they've learnt to listen. It's true, at times they really have to concentrate very hard to sort out what she's saying, but they all do it out of habit anyway, as it's Luna. Usually what she's saying at any given time proves to be quite intriguing, tangentially. Luna's always been a bit of a lay Oracle. "Yes….We really, really should—and Mum would fully approve, I think. Right? I do think so. That. She would."  
>"Okay, good." In the resultant small awkward silence, Lovegood bobs her chin, happy again, and returns to her latest scone with a decided air of enthusiasm.<p>

"..Er?" Ginny ventures. "Um?"

"Well, really!" Granger huffs nastily. "What about Harry?"  
>"Approves w<em>hat,<em> Lovegood?" Pansy snaps. She hasn't much patience at times, especially when slurping up the caffeine and the sugar on top of the Muggle vodka, and this earns her a warning glare from the others. "Mum _who_? What're _you_ talking about? I am so bloody confused here, I can't tell you."  
>Luna and her scone enjoy an intimate moment before she speaks again: she smiles at it playfully and the pastry crumbles out obligingly from between her fingers, butter-glue notwithstanding. "Play," she grins at them all, briefly, round the table. "We should play. All of us. Together."<br>"Play," Ginny echoes flatly. "...Play? Er, aren't we?" She glances about them, at the laughing, eating, sipping people. "Well, if skiving off work to take elevensies together is considered 'playing', that is. I mean, it's alright as it goes, but it's nothing special."  
>"Look, what d'you mean, exactly, Luna?" Hermione is momentarily past her snit. She perks up, curious, ignoring Ginny's comments pointedly. She sips carefully and straightens her aching back, rubbing it absently. "By 'play'? Play games? Instruments? With words? Puz—"<br>"Harry, too," Luna crams the crumbs into her mouth and speaks through them. "You mentioned Harry? Well, _especially _Harry. And your friends, Pansy, as well. All of them; everyone will be welcome, oh, yes! Bring it, I say. Every. Single. One."  
>The other three Witches duck and cover variously to avoid a spray of crumbs kicked up by Luna's generous sweep of an arm.<br>"My...friends, too? H'erm…" Pansy nods slowly as she straightens up again, reluctantly willing to be diverted. "Super, thanks." After all, diversion is key when one is bored shitless; she's full aware she's not the only ex-Slytherin to appreciate that. "But, Lovegood. Speak English now. Play what, precisely? You've not said."  
>"Plays." Luna smiles delightedly. "Just that—plays. Acting, ladies. Players play; we'll play, too."<br>"You mean as in the theatre, Luna?" Hermione's beautifully bright-eyed and not at all irritable, abruptly, her mood completely changed up. It happens; her female mates have grown accustomed recently. She removes the chopped nuts from her scone surgically, all the while, making a small heap of them—which Luna helps herself to, as needed. The tiny pastry replica of what might be Stonehenge made of scone bits grows yet more intricately detailed, between the two of them. "Like, we should go out and see one? A play?"  
>"No, silly!" Luna giggles as if Hermione's uttered something utterly ridiculous and unbelievable. "No, not <em>that<em>. We should _be _them. _Do_ them. Hold them. Present them...But…we are, already—aren't we? All the world's a stage, isn't it?" She glances about, gaze dancing over the bustle of extras and the sole waiter who serves them, his apron strings flapping as he hustles. "It _is_. And if it is, we should make over our roles right now. It's time." She grins like a veritable noddy over this last expansive proclamation, as if it came straight from the Dalai Lama via Wizarding Wireless, and was Merlin's final word on the subject, direct.  
>"Time?" Granger's still clueless. "Time…" Parkinson just blinks, staring.<br>"Yes, now. It's more than time. Even Daddy thinks so. Or he will, when I tell him."  
>"Oh! Yes." Ginny's twigged it; she's afire with enthusiasm, immediately. "A play, a play! We should do, Luna!" She wriggles her trim arse about in her bent-iron seat at the café table, all at once roused entirely from her mid-morning ennui. "That's brilliant!" The idea of prancing about on a stage has done what lashings of caffeine and sweets hasn't. "Oh, oh—and Hermione, you <em>don't<em> know, do you? Of course you wouldn't; what am I thinking? About the little plays—the house skits? When we were all small we'd put them up for all the neighboring families to see—all sorts! Dress up, act out scenes and such. For fun, it was. All Hallow's, Christmas and Easter ones—even Saturnalia and Samhain!"  
>"And Beltane—" Luna chirps, adding a crumb-butter paste ballast to her foundation. "Those are exceptionally fun, Beltane ones. Bawdy. But Muggle, this one. <em>I'm<em> thinking. We require a spot o' the Muggle, right now, especially. Yes, that's it."  
>"A play, you say? We are to act out a play? And…and a Muggle one, too?" Hermione's hormone-fogged brain has pieced it together at last. Absently, she hands Lovegood a stray bit of jammy crumpet, which is promptly consumed. "I see…'leastways, I<em> think<em> I see...um, do I?"  
>"Well, good," Luna mumbles. She points at her crumbly construction. Which is not Stonehenge at all but meant to be a representation of a Grecian amphitheatre. "As it's right there. Like that, see?"<p>

"What a mess you've made there, Lovegood," Parkinson observes, but she's not at all offended by it, seemingly. "Playing with your food."  
>"Good, yes." Hermione isn't looking at what Lovegood's wrought; instead she cocks her gently rounded chin like a curious sparrow and stares away at nothing, gathering about her the invisible mantle of being the acknowledged 'brains' of the group, and clearly considering deeply. Her eyes go very much distant. "A play, alright, yes; that'll do nicely. It's certainly a group activity, very socially spirited...But, Luna, who to involve? I mean, not everyone is around Town at this point—and they're all far too busy, if they are. They've their own lives now—Harry, for one—you mentioned him specifically?"<br>"Hobby." Pansy pronounces decidedly. "Amateur theatre it is." She waves her emptied Bloody Mary glass happily, having decided to contribute. "We'll tell them it's a hobby we've all taken up and say we desperately need their help. Half you lot are rabid Gryffs; you'll be suckers for the cause, I'm sure. Helpers won't be a problem, Lovegood. Half our lot are slaves to the Ministry machine; they'll do anything for a lark."  
>"Hmm, hobby." Ginny nods."Brilliant, yes. I like it. No pressure, then."<br>"Still...and all." Granger pulls a face, suddenly. "That's all very well, but...it's all so difficult, too, Luna, now I'm really thinking of it. The time we'd need to devote, the resources alone! It's too much, the arrangements...and, no, I don't know if I can even...hmm." She shakes her head. "Bother."  
>"As for mine?" Parkinson grimaces slightly and speaks up loudly, right over her tablemate's muted but highly aggrieved sighs and mutterings, poking at Lovegood's idea in her own head. It…appears to float. "<em>My<em> mates, you said?"

"Oh, yes!" Lovegood discards a one particular bit of Danish as 'no-good'. "Bring them, I said. Didn't I?"  
>Pansy nods. Yes, it's a bit whacky, but it might turn the trick. And if this is the way the wind blows, she's with it, as always. Any wind's better than dead stagnant waters. She adjusts a black lace garter, meditating, eyebrows gathering.<br>"Right, well. They'd be game, I think. Theo's dying on the vine in Magical Accounting. And Blaise is at the Ministry, too—he's lots of free time, since he's landed a position feet first in Games, the lazy tosser. And Greg's married now and doing something incredibly mundane for a living, but he's available evenings and so's his new wife, What's Her Name? Oh, and I suppose I could owl Draco, too. He'll show up for it, I'm certain. Poor git's at the mercy of Mummy and Daddy now he's home again from playing with this little dragons. Climbing the ruddy drapes by now, I daresay, poor sod. It'd be a real favour to him, saving him from his parents."  
>"Malfoy?" Hermione crinkles a brow, diverted from her internal spate of gloom-and-doom over ever-mounting production details. "Really, Parkinson—Malfoy? Don't you think he and Harry—I mean, chalk and cheese, isn't it? Really."<br>"Yes, really!" Ginny giggles delightedly. "Fire and ice, more like! Think of the sparks, Herm. We shan't even need special effects with those two involved. Talk about the drama!"  
>"Hmm." Pansy rubs her snub nose and wrinkles it, grimacing. "Oh, Merlin. Too true."<br>"Drama." Hermione blinks at them all in turn and then blinks again, slowly, at her cuppa. "Hum. Huh...well...ye—esss. All right."  
>"More than."<br>Lovegood promptly steals the remainder of Hermione's crumpet and eats it up in two swift bites. The tiny theatre nearly collapses at the close brush-by of a wild sleeve as she gestures an elbow. She's smiling, whole-body...no, _grinning. _All glee, one hundred percent, and abruptly so.  
>"<em>I<em> think it's perfect."

Luna has spoken; she's more than spoken.

"_I _believe it'll be brilliant."

And the miniature stage set she's built endures, completed and resplendent of Madeleine columns and Danish jelly smudges upon the middle of the table. She plucks a gerbera bloom from the centrepiece and crowns it, cheerily.

"Mum would like it very much, me playing, you playing. _Us_ playing. And Dad will give us all the free publicity we want. We'll do it, then; it's settled."  
>"…And is your Mum—Merlin rest her soul—up for directing this mad plan of yours, Lovegood?" Pansy gives up on musing over her fellow Slytherins and eyes Luna as if she's barking. Because she is, of course, and everyone with any sense knows it. "We'll need an actual director, of course, if this is happen for real. And a crew—actors—all of that, if anyone's to ever take us seriously."<p>

"Seriously?"

"Well, _naturally_." But nutters _is_ an amusing state and Pansy is all for the amusing, at least right now. She smiles to take the sting away from her words. She'll put up with Gryffs to have a steady diet of it. Even—Salazar forbid—volunteer!  
>"Why should anyone ever take us <em>seriously<em>?" Lovegood wants to know. She steals Parkinson's cuppa right from betwixt her painted fingernails and polishes off the contents in one gulp. "It's for fun. Good time, had by all. There's no 'serious' in any of it."

"Salazar!" Parkinson gasps, horrified. "Your manners!"

Granger has not noted this transgression of tea; she's still occupied muttering and telling over points on her fingertips.

"Not hardly," Ginny giggles at Parkinson's expression. "Not all of it is that easy, I don't think. Forgive me, Luna, but we shan't all be able to channel your Mum's directions, not when we really need all the practical help we can get. Plays—real ones—are hard to make happen, if you want to do it right. We'll need a gaggle of breathing bodies—that it, if you're really serious about this, then?"

She glances about the table but not one of her fellow witches is saying a negative word.

"Herm, darling? Parkinson?"

On the contrary, everyone's come alive, as if this barmy idea sprung from the depths of Luna's squirrely brain is a spring tonic.

"Ah, is everyone in? I know I am."  
>"<em>I<em> am," Pansy replies promptly. "Count on me. Idiot for doing it, but there you are. Why not."  
>"I am—I really am. Me, me, me." Luna nods agreeably and smiles beatifically at Hermione, the final holdout. "It'll be a blast, you'll see. Lovely!"<br>For no reason whatsoever she tosses a toasted currant backward and over each shoulder, narrowly missing striking the two elderly witches seated next door. They glare when the currants splash into their syrup pot—Luna doesn't notice. Pansy does, though, and carefully stares the older Witches down like a professional nanny, black eyes narrowed and full of sinister meaning, till at last the two irritated biddies shift uncomfortably and look away from the little twenty-something gaggle of girls.  
>"A...blast, is it?" Granger's a bit dubious, but she nods, all the same. "Right. If you say so."<br>"_Yes_." Luna is frighteningly positive. "A hoot, a lark, some fun. We need fun. Like butter; same thing. Hermione?" She glows with an air of strong conviction, even to her ringlets of waywardly buttered hair. "_So_? Please."

It's the moment of truth; Ginny and Pansy await it. Without the Brains, this proposed Play will never progress, of course.  
>"Yes, right, then. Then it's going to have to be all of us, right here at this table," Hermione declares, all at once militant. "Who takes charge of it. <em>We're<em> here—it's _our_ idea. And we can pull people in as we need them, right? Of course we can. I know Ron will help us out, if I ask. He'll do anything for me right now—wanker he is, feeling all sorry for himself. Bah! Fatherhood!" She shrugs, sipping, as Ginny giggles again. "Hmm. He'll do nicely, actually. Understands directions already. And we'll likely need brawn as well as brains, don't you think? For the sets. Heavy lifting. The actors, too."  
>"Hmmm…we'll need more publicity, too, I should think, than just your <em>Quibbler<em>." Ginny's abandoned her tea altogether. "Someone to get the word out; trot about with flyers. And costumes—oh, we'll want those."  
>"A place to meet up, as well," Hermione adds sensibly. "For practice, and a theatre, a real one. And more players than just us four—and then, and then, what're we going to act out, Luna? What'll be our play, our first one? Any suggestions?"<br>"_I've_ one. You mentioned your Muggles before, Granger?" Pansy's got her nose up in the air, scenting; she butts into the fray with a jabbing finger. "What about that Willy Shakespeare bloke's stuff, then? He wasn't, really, but all the Muggles I know of truly believe he is, despite everything to the contrary, silly sods—and your mixed parentage types won't know the difference. Let's use his plays, shall we? Suits the whole idea, _I_ think."  
>"Shakespeare..." Luna sighs happily, lashes fluttering dreamily. "Shakespeare, oh! Bardy, Bard, Bard! Yes, let's."<br>"Huh! Mixed!" A nasty snort is provoked from Hermione. "Parkinson, mind that tongue of yours!"

"Sorry!"  
>Granger wavers between possibly feeling offended and a genuinely cynical wave of agreement, as Parkinson is actually correct in her statement: Shakespeare was a Wizard and the Muggles have no clue of that, never did. But that's immaterial; the man was still a brilliant playwright.<br>"Come on, Granger; I didn't mean it like that," Parkinson winks at her, cooing. "I meant it only in the best possible way, of course. You want Muggle, we need Wizard too, to appeal to everyone. The Shakespeare bloke's work is bloody universal. Very much meant for all of us, parentage notwithstanding."  
>"Hmmm…yes, I can see Shakespeare, I suppose." Granger tilts her head to the right, in a tacit sort of agreement with Parkinson's logic, plus the creeping and probably pregnancy-related feeling of not having the sufficient energy to launch a full-on rant over the merits of a person's antecedents—and how it doesn't matter—never mattered, and wasn't that what the war was all about, anyway?<p>

"Fine."  
>But, the war's well over. She's taking her tea with a Slytherin. And that's the whole point, isn't it? Not re-fighting battles when one needn't.<p>

"Yes?" Parkinson smiles winningly. It's obvious there's a Witch here who could readily tackle the PR aspect. "Go on, Granger? You were about to say yes, weren't you?"  
>"Okay, all right. You're on." Sighing, the Brains gives in with a certain sense of resignation and waves a careless blueberry Danish. "Everyone does know of the Immortal Bard, Muggle and Wizarding alike…I think." She blinks, abruptly struck by a thought. "Well. Maybe not <em>my<em> Ron. He's a bit of a hopeless twat when it comes to culture, any sort. Or Harry, either, for that matter. Harry's education in the fine arts has always been sadly spotty."

She slumps into seat, cast down again. "Poor dear."  
>"Oi! That's my big brother you're insulting, Hermione!" Ginny falls into a fit of muffled amusement; she's at that stage in her young life where literally <em>everything's <em>amusing—if it's not dead tedious. "Give the poor old git a break, Hermie. He's not totally thick, alright? Married y_ou,_ didn't he? And of course our poor, dear Harry. It's not like he can help it, not knowing anything." She scowls for an instant. "Those awful Muggles, you know; all their fault, it is. Really, I still hate them for it."  
>Hermione blushes and peers at her burgeoning lap; she's just had a fitting for new robes at Ginny's shop.<br>"Mmm," she allows grudgingly. "Yes, okay." It's not all a pain the arse, being up the duff; there are a few rewards. "Well..." And hormones are the very devil sometimes. "True enough, I guess; Ron's not a total idiot…much. But I have to point out that insatiable big brother of yours, Gin, has gone and made me fat for my trouble, the great tit. And I've hardly established myself. It's a bit too soon to have a child in my life to complicate things."  
>"You're not fat, ducks," Ginny chimes in, patiently. "You're preggers. There's a difference. And you like it, really, when you're not thinking so hard about it. Admit that, do."<br>"Look! Not to insult you or anything," Pansy throws in hastily, sensing the outbreak of more possible Granger-centred theatrics and sulking. The world these days is a bit flat and she's impatient; has always been.

"You're definitely not fat, Granger."

She's bored out of her skull, honestly, and all the Galleons in the world don't seem to solve that. A little excitement would be worth almost any price.

"Really; trust me on that. But…it's. Look, I'm only just thinking about what Lovegood seems to be really wanting us to do with this whole play idea. It's not so bad, some excitement to look forward to. Be good for us all. We _should_ take it seriously, alright? I mean, I can make the time to help; it's not as if I'm doing much else—and there's Daphne. She's not doing much more than I am, now; just messing about. Or look to our dear Lovegood, here, will you? She's all about the 'fun', isn't she? And she certainly seems the better for it. It'll do us all good, for Merlin's sake."  
>"Fun!" Hermione scoffs. "You call sleeping with anything both breathing and bipedal <em>fun<em>, Parkinson? What about the social diseases? What about all the emotional damage playing about in the sack does to a person's esteem in the long run? And, _you_, Luna," she offers a disapproving stare at her other friend, "sometimes I really wonder about you, you know? This can't be good for you. You need take better care of yourself."  
>"Um?" Luna's made eye contact with a likely looking young man three tables away; she's not minding the current drift of conversation at all, clearly. "Good for me? Oh, yes; it's all good, good. Brilliant. I like it."<br>Hermione scowls.  
>"Oh, come on—leave it!" Ginny snaps, glaring between the two of them and pouting. "We don't have time for this nonsense, Herm, and it's none of your business. Leave Luna be, okay? She wants to gad about and shag, let her. It's not a crime. We're young yet and not of all of us are tied down, are we? And we—we need to plan! Plan this fun thing! Come on!"<br>"Plan…" Luna's blue gaze drifts to land upon Ginny's determined grimace; she smiles, all mild eyes and somewhat inanely bovine uplift to her startlingly hot pink painted lips. "I can plan," she states simply, blinking round the table. "Um. Would you like me to?"  
>"You?" Granger falters.<p>

"Luna, really?" Ginny asks.

Parkinson huffs, faintly.

A shared glance is passed between them, from sharpish sherry brown eyes to snapping black ones to brown again and then all gather upon the hazy blue which contemplates their reluctance with an easy grace. Another moment lingers, long and quiet. An air of deep contemplation and acceptance settles lightly over them all. But they don't immediately jump to take up Lovegood's offer, either.  
>"Right, moving on," Ginny nods abruptly, pushing back the legs of her chair with a metallic screech and summoning a notepad and a quill. "Seriously, now. Who should we owl first? Anyone have ideas?"<br>Hermione blinks down at her lap and then regards Luna with a level stare. For all Lovegood's raving she's still a real Ravenclaw—and she does somehow manage to know simply everyone, everywhere, and all about what their getting up to.

Granger blinks.

This is possibly because she's slept with them all, at one point or another—or mayhap due to her inherited position as Chief Interviewer at _The Quibbler_, but what does that matter, in the end? Luna's in prime position to plan and conspire and bustle about arranging—much more so than one irritable pregnant lady suffering from constant nausea is, at least.  
>"Fine…in fact, yes, why don't you just go ahead and carry on with that fine thing, Luna?" Hermione allows slowly, nodding, having truly given it her entire and final consideration. "In fact,<em> I <em>really think you should, dear." She shrugs lopsidedly, flapping her sensibly painted fingernails at her lap. "I've rather my hands full at the moment, you see—I can't do it, obviously. This," she points at her own bellybutton, hidden under the swatches of fabric, "is only going to grow worse, not better."  
>"Worse!" Ginny snorts. "Silly bint—you know you love it, Hermione. Give over or I tell my brother you're naught but a Whingeing Wanda!"<br>"A belly full, more like," Pansy sneers, but she's not really making fun. "Which is as it should be, darling. You're carrying." Her quick pat to Hermione's upper arm—already more rounded than it was even a month ago, as she packs on the baby weight—isn't anything other than a womanly comfort. Babies are a fascinating prospect for a single girl—as long as they're OP's babies. "And you're still the acknowledged thinker amongst us, true, ducks, but yes—it's been all Lovegood's idea, hasn't it? Lovegood's to be in charge, then. Or Lovegood's Mum, if that's the case—whatever she wants,_ I_ don't care. I'm easy."  
>"Yes…" The ladies nod at each other, anticipation rising."Yes!"<br>"And we'll help, alright? With all the planning? As much as you want, Luna."

Ginny's eager to do it, to jump in slippers first. She's working at a shop on Diagon but selling robes to Firsties and matrons-on–budgets isn't very exciting—and she knows of plenty of other likely souls that are just as restless as she, in the new era.

"You know? I can't wait, really. I so need something to actually sink my teeth into! I'm bored to tears, anymore. All of this—all of them, they're so…_so_!"

The extras on stage are blissfully oblivious, which is likely a very good thing, as they may've just been insulted for daring to exist.  
>The Witches all nod with varying degrees of enthusiam, all Four of them. They've not much, really, between them. Life these days is so comfortably safe and so comfortably dull. Thanks to Harry.<br>"And I mean, there's Lavender, for one—she's wizard with sewing spells, you should see her!" Ginny rabbits on, thinking aloud when no one thinks to object or speaks up to interrupt her. "And Neville's likely good for it—" Ginny adds, blinking. "God, yes, Nev's definitely good for it, up to his elbows all day in potting soil, poor blighter. And, oh! I bet Dean and Seamus would be ever so game to join in—!"  
>"Draco," Pansy repeats quietly, nodding wisely to herself. "We'll be needing Draco, absolutely. I'll Owl him."<br>"_And_ dear, dear Rolfie," Luna chirrups happily, her eyes trained on the waiter who's been eyeing her up and down as if _she_ were a very nice piece of random pastry. He grins appealingly across the stretch of tables between them; Luna winks at him in return, very obviously.

The other three take notice of this instantly.  
>"Ahem!" Hermione clears her throat, in a pointed manner. "Luna! Not now, please; we're eating!"<br>"But? I _must _speak to Rolfie." She blinks at Hermione's stare, bland and blind to hints as much as a pail of ditchwater might be. "He _is _a professional, is Rolfie. You'll really like him, too, I'm sure."  
>"A professional <em>what<em>?" Pansy wants to know. She stares at Luna blankly, across her cooling tea. "Server?"  
>"Actor, of course." Luna grins happily. "All the real live actors work in cafes, Parkinson; you know that, don't you? And he's the very definition of the Real Thing, honest to Merlin; has had a part in a Muggle film and everything! Rolfie will be sure to give us all the tips and tricks he knows of the stage, I know it. We're very close, me and my Rolfie." She twines two fingers together, crossing them. "<em>Close<em>."  
>"Very close, is it? Which is to say you've shagged him, right?" Ginny smirks. "Huh. Of course you have."<br>"About that." Hermione frowns. "Luna, dear—are you positive you haven't thought of settling down? I mean, I know Nev's been interested in you, at least, and he's not so bad. Has a good position at Hogwarts and he's terribly steady—"  
>"Um? Neville?" Luna shakes her head slowly in reply, her sky blue eyes very wide indeed. "No? ...Why?"<p>

"Okay, stop with that!"

Pansy slams down her cup with a thunk. She's not a'tall interested in the gritty details of whom Luna shags. It could take hours telling those over. And Luna has naturally no mental filtres at all when it comes to relating juicy bits. She also doesn't really appreciate Granger's new and very highly annoying habit of wanting to fix every single person she's in contact with up with one another. They've not all met the bloke or bint of their dreams as far back as at Hogwarts in the First bloody Year, as Granger has, the sorry bint—Brede's Blood, it's a bit boring, really, to even dwell on the idea of matching up. But she's civil, despite this. Pregnant witches are a bit frightening when one gets their dander up.

Granger, especially. And Granger is integral, of course.  
>"Right—leave it, Granger," Parkinson counsels, biting back impatience. "Let her do as she likes. You've got the married-with-children part down pat and covered enough for all of us here. Give it a rest, <em>do<em>, Mumsy."  
>"Mumsy! Really now!" Hermione sniffs. Is offended again—and then is abruptly not, as the wild hormones shift one-eighty degrees, sloshing. "…Mumsy, really? That's…that's not bad, Parkinson. Not bad at all." She blinks moist eyes at Lovegood, overwhelmed with a sudden, massive concern-storm, all for her best mate. "<em>Oh<em>! But Harry, Luna! _Harry_! What're you planning to do about _him_?"

"Harry? Harry Potter?" Lovegood tears her gaze from the waiter's ardent one and stares at Granger blankly. "What about Harry Potter, now? Is he well, Hermione?"

"No!" Hermione had forgotten him, momentarily, in her tiny snit over Luna's total lack of decorum. And her own sudden fancy of the very sappy term 'Mumsy'. "_No_—back to my original question, Luna. What _will_ we do about him? He's…well, he's." She frowns. "It's…I'm concerned for Harry, very concerned. He's not been...been. Well. He's not…quite. You see?"

It's the nature of women who are close in age and experience—and tied together in ways perhaps even they don't fully understand—that they do all _see_. All of them.

"Oh, darling," Parkinson sighs. "Yes, alright—bloody _Harry_ it is. Lovegood?"  
>"Oh…right." Luna twirls a curl, accidently dragging it into her tea cup. It coils there, absorbing the colour of the Lapsang Souchong. "<em>I'll<em> talk with him, Hermione. I'll sort it out, don't fret. It'll be lovely, I promise. We'll make of him a star; set him right up in a jiffy."  
>"That's what I'm afraid of, actually," Hermione replies, grim as can be. She sips her weak chamomile—all her perpetually uneasy gut can handle in the first trimester—and scowls at her friend. It doesn't help her temper that she's always starving—or that she's also always bilious and nauseated. And can't sleep a night through. And worries, incessantly. "<em>You<em>, speaking to Harry. What're you planning to say to him, exactly?"  
>"Hmm."<p>

Luna stares deep into the tea she's been through two full pots of; it's an acquired taste, this dark tar-tasting sort. That's the other thing about Lovegood—a large appetite, she has, and for many a different type of item, from assorted people to various baked goods and conserves. Her mates tend to find this trait both bracing and terrifying, both.

"_Hmm_. I...have no idea, really," she allows, after a long moment. That admission is followed by a second and decidedly knowing wink, which leaves several of the Witches shuddering in its wake. "But I'll think of_ something_, I'm sure."  
>A flash of blindingly conspiratorial grin is shared by Lovegood, all 'round the table, and even Pansy is reminded that Ravenclaws are quite uncannily canny, for all their noted abstraction.<p>

"Exactly," Granger snorts darkly, "what I was afraid of."

"Whoo!" Ginny mumbles, glancing away quickly. "Here we go."

"Good show," Parkinson approves smartly. "You just carry on, darling. _I'm_ with you, all the way."  
>"Really, yes." Lovegood's stare is absolutely razor-edged, abruptly. She rubs her chin and wrinkles her nose at them. "There's always the 'something', ladies. Not to worry, never fear."<p> 


	10. S2, Act 2, Scene 3 Casting Couch

**Stage 2, Act 2, Scene 3. 'Casting Couch'. **Malfoy Manor, a rather anonymous corridor. An anonymous day, one of successive repeating ones. Clearly, a day that _something_ of minor momentousness should occur.

In the distance the muted sound of voices; it is late afternoon and light finds its way to an 'L' shaped nook between two doorways. Draco has just emerged from one; Harry Potter is rushing his way along the corridor towards him, clearly late and anxious over it.

Harry is in Auror robes, his boots still shiny from elf polish. His robes flap and his hair, trimmed to a moderate length, flops as well. He is scowling, his teeth catching his lower lip.

Draco, on the other hand, is his usual composed self: casually yet expensively clad in denims and a pale blue Oxford shirt, a fine v-neck jersey vest atop it. His hair is artfully in a studied disarray; his eyes are narrowed. His feet are clad only in silk socks: grey paisley-figured, they match his eyes when his eyes are pewter-hued with temper, as they are now.

* * *

><p>"About time," he drawls, when Harry fetches up before him, panting. "You showed your comical face, Harry. I'd just about given up on you for today."<p>

Harry snorts, disgusted.

"This pile of yours is fucking huge, Malfoy!" he exclaims, flapping both hands wildly. Draco steps back prudently, fearing he'll be struck in passing, no doubt. "No sane person should have a five minute walk from a bloody Floo parlour to arrive anywhere! It's fucking ridiculous!"

"And yet," Draco gestures airily with one hand, his features altering from intent to amused, "I call it home, sweet home, Harry. Welcome to it, by the way. How was your day at the office, dear?" he deadpans, stepping back farther yet to flourish his companion through the cream-painted doorway he stands blocking. "Busy?"

"Oh, shut it, Malfoy," Harry growls, his scowl deepening. He stomps on through, glaring indiscriminately at absolutely everything, from the décor to his urbane companion—and tutor in all things theatrical. "You're not funny. In the least."

"Oooh, bad day, then?" Draco's eyebrows soar as he follows after his guest. "I think a drinks offer, Harry, might be considered good form at this juncture. Have one? Settle those temperamental nerves of yours; they're showing."

"What d'you have on offer, anyway?" Harry's voice is clipped as he flings off his over-robes on a handy console chair; he's so bloody grumpy it's rolling off his person in waves, like a cloud of steam, rising. He plumps his arse with a thunk upon the Hepplewhite settee and glares around at hearth and mantel, card table and the various china whatnots and landscapes that decorate the small room. "A whiskey might do it."

"As it happens, I've the Glenfiddich," Draco smirks. "Muggle in origin but very smooth, nonetheless. My addition to the family cellars, Father's opinion be damned. Might serve to smooth down a few of your ruffled feathers; we can but hope." He pours out a generous tot for his guest and himself, catching up the tumblers and slinking over to the sofa to deliver Harry's. "Here," he orders, waving the glass beneath Harry's flaring nostrils. "Drink up and then talk to me. Tell me what's got your knickers in a twist. Must be something minor or the Ministry would be smithereens by now, given your temper."

He smirks almost audibly; Harry glares mutinously. The cut-glass tumbler is nearly pressed against Harry's upper lip.

"Thanks," Harry snarls, jerking the glass from Draco impatiently and glugging down a generous swallow, "for cold comfort, mate." He snorts, evidently unable to think of something worse—as in, more insulting—to retort.

Draco can't help but grin. Harry on a wild tear is a fun thing to watch; it excites him. It's familiar and thus comforting.

"Seriously, what happened?" he asks companionably, settling in on the next cushion over from his guest. He raises an eyebrow, one of his primary forms of communication, as his student-cum-coworker has learnt. "What's got you in such a strop?"

"Dawlish," Harry grunts. "Bastard."

"Him again? Really, Harry, you should take this up with your pet Minister—"

"Tried that," Harry interrupts, downing half his glass in a gulp. He leans back against the squabs with a weary sigh. "Did you think I hadn't? And no go, as usual. I'm going to fucking expire at my desk, sod it, and no one will frigging care if I do die there, as long as I'm safe doing it!"

"Dramatic!" Draco whistles softly through his teeth. "You've been practicing, then? I can tell."

"Prick," Harry quirks his lips in a smile-like grimace. "Not quite, but I am ready to stand up and deliver the fucking soliloquy of my life, you arse. I'm so sick of this shit, I am. Let's do bloody Hamlet, alright? I could happily spear your snarky arse through the arras."

"Then do it," Draco urges, leaning closer, sidling his arse over the satin cushion. "Not murdering me, arse, but pitching a fit at your boss-man. Do it and be done with it, Harry. You don't have to sit still for this—you don't!"

Harry sighs, taking another sip. He rolls the aged Muggle whisky about in his mouth, letting its smoky scent/taste coat his tongue and trickle down his throat. Beside him, Draco avidly eyes the eventual swallow, his fingers twitching unnoticed on his untouched tumbler when Harry's Adam's apple bobs.

"I do," he replies quietly, shaking his head, "for at least a bit longer. I bloody well do, you see. Face of the Aurors and all that. All I'm good for but still essential, apparently. I scare the bloody baddies, y'see, just by breathing."

"That's so stupid, Harry," Draco flops back against the cushions, his face settling into discontented lines. "They're idiots, every last one of them—not that you should be so foolish as to make yourself a target, but still! Boy Who Fucking Lived, yeah? Has to be good for something—you'd think."

Harry grins ruefully, polishing off the remainder of liquid in his glass. He waves it and Draco cocks a pinkie to bring the decanter over.

"You'd think, but no. It's not for the likes of me, or so they say, Dawlish and Kingsley. The whole frigging department, actually—even Dean and Seamus are on at me about it. 'Not to worry, Harry,' Dean tells me. 'You more than did your bit, Harry—relax already,' Seamus says. 'Let us handle it.'"

Draco huffs, his mouth thinned.

"What shit, Harry. Utter bollocks."

"Oh, it's sodding, bloody, fucking crap what they say to me; there's no denying that! But I can't get them to say differently, no matter what I do." He claps a hand to his scarred forehead, shifting the empty glass about with a jerk. The decanter hurries to follow, bravely attempting to pour. "And believe me, I've tried. Two years now, I've tried. And nothing to show for it." He taps the side of his refilled glass, ticking off what annoys him today. "Same old paperwork, same old excuses, same old cubicle, day after day. Like clockwork, mate. Like Azkaban, damn it!"

Draco frowns along with him, staring off at the empty hearth. There's a bouquet resting in it; all the gathered blooms in shades of fire, but it gives off no warmth. He scowls, his brows drawing together slowly, and nods faintly.

"I think they've got their heads up their arseholes," Draco allows, "but then…maybe."

He taps a fingernail to his chin, thoughtfully, and rolls his toes within his socks. Glenfiddich fills Harry's glass to the brim.

"Maybe? Cheers, mate," Harry says, simultaneously hefting his refilled tumbler and a saturnine eyebrow in ironic toast. "Maybe what, Draco? Maybe I'll endure? Maybe I won't run amok? Maybe—"

"No, Harry," Draco shoots back, rounding on Harry with a little frown. "Not a'tall. I was going to say maybe you'll finally admit it's a lost cause, Auroring. Since there's no getting 'round them, even for you."

"I don't see why I should!" Harry sits up with a cushion-jouncing start, ferocious frown fully returned. "They trained me! They invited me! They spent all that time and money and what-have-you on me, making me into what I am, and now they won't use it, the pricks! I was supposed to be a weapon, but all I am is a fucking figurehead—no earthly use to anyone!"

"No, no, Harry—you're useful," Draco shakes his head in the negative, using Harry's fluster to disguise his quiet creep closer. "Quite, I'd say, if rumour is true. Just not the way you wished to be. Sooo…I say," he tacks on, a hand casually alighting on the top of the couch, just behind Harry's black head. "_I_ say," he repeats softly, as if thinking aloud.

"You say?" Harry sends him a sideways glare, green eyes slits. "Git?"

"Mock the bloody bastards—make them sit up and pay attention. Give 'em what for, Harry Potter. Just as you always do. But…differently, this time. A little subtlety is called for, methinks."

"What?" Harry demands. "How, arse? I can't drill it through their thick heads, Draco—I have tried!"

"Harry," Draco replies, drawing nearer yet, "if you can't beat it into them privately, then you're going to have to take a stand in public, alright? Take your issues to the masses. Make a stink, Harry. Embarrass them—humiliate them and all their silly policies. Show them up as the two-faced bastards they really are. Do what Malfoys do in these situations."

"What Malfoys do?" Harry parrots. "And what is that? Posture? Strut? Make a ruddy fuss?" He tilts a lip in a very Malfoyesque curl, raising one eyebrow like a dagger. "Call upon Daddy to put them in their place?"

Draco chuckles, and sips, possibly buying time. He's not taken offense; indeed, he's grinning behind the rim of his glass, as if quite pleased about something.

"Exactly so. Use the weapons you've been handed, git. You're an actor now, Harry—or nearly so," he observes dryly, when he's swallowed. "Need some work yet on your business and your projection, and you slouch about when you think no one's watching, but still—you're a bloody star. In more ways than one, even. Use it—use it to your advantage, for once."

"How so?" Harry wrestles around on the cushions, toeing off his dapper military-styled half-boots with a little struggle and tucking one leg up and under his arse when they're shed. "What's the one have to do with t'other, Draco? There's no connection—and that's the way I'd like to keep it!"

"But why should you?" Draco questions. He seems very surprised Harry hasn't instantly jumped on whatever bandwagon he's imagining. "Where's the harm? It's a tool, your fame—your position. Use it to obtain what you want—just—" he stops abruptly, clamping lips tight together. "Ah…"

Harry pokes him when he doesn't continue.

"Just what, Draco? What?"

"Know what you actually want, Harry, before you do. That's all," Draco says softly—slowly, as colour washes into his normally pale cheeks. Frowning, he glances away again, his gaze skittering over the scenes done up in oils lining the damask-hung walls. "Be very sure indeed before you go after what you want. Exercise the option of choice, this time 'round. Since you've the option."

"Are you on that again, mate?" Harry demands querulously, settling back again with the scowl that had never quite subsided fully apparently. "Get off it, alright? I've always wanted to be an Auror—since Fourth Year. I've not changed my mind yet. I don't see why I should have to, honestly."

"No…not that's not what I'm saying." Draco's tone isn't apologetic but it is a little less sharp and intense. The emotion that drove him to challenge his companion has fallen away. He stares at Harry's bent kneecap and sips at his whiskey, so that a smear remains, leaving his lips moistened. "I'm not asking you to change, git. I'm asking you to make a choice. Not to let your life be run by others. This time."

"Well? What did you mean, then, exactly? What is it you advise, then? 'Cause I don't do anything I don't want to, Draco. You know that."

"But you do," Draco rejoins softly, his fingers returned to twitching. "That's precisely what you _do_ do—you allow it."

"Oh, no!" Harry exclaims. He leans forward, face eager and fierce. "I wanted to defeat the slit-nosed bastard—I wanted vengeance, Draco! I got it, alright? And I want my job; to do my fucking job, that is, and to be an Auror—to finish what I started. And I will, too." He scowls blackly at the whiskey's surface, taking a deep breath to steady himself. Draco observes him, eyes sharp as tacks. "I just have to be a little patient. A few more years to wait, that's all, until the popular furor dies down over the whole thing with Voldemort—that's what Kingsley told me and I believe him! He's my friend."

"As am I, Harry," Draco's returned to a drawl, his expression once again an amused mask despite the quiet earnestness of his tone. "Your…friend."

Harry's head rises abruptly at the statement; he appears to be concentrating on Draco's chin. His green eyes burn into it, scorching. Draco swallows beneath his regard but he doesn't alter even by a fraction his masterfully constructed demeanour: he's sincere. Bloody sincere.

"Believe it or not, as you will. But_ I_ believe—honestly, Harry, I do—you're making a huge mistake, staying with the Aurors. You're wasting your precious time, waiting about for them to give you permission to do the fecking job you signed up for. You're failing, my friend, at getting what you need."

"Git!" Harry's outburst is all sparkle and brilliance. His eyes flash behind the thin metallic spectacle frames; he shoves his hair off his forehead with an impatient hand. "Like you even know me, Malfoy! You don't, alright? You've no idea!"

"On the contrary." Draco is absolutely assured he's spot-on. "I've a very good idea what goes on in that addled brain of yours. And I think you're misguided, naïve and dead wrong, sadly. You deserve better than this—out to pasture when you're not even twenty-five yet. It's preposterous and you put up with it."

Draco grins as Harry scrambles to plant his feet on the floor, clearly wishing to rise up and tear himself physically off the comfortable divan. He has to move, Harry does, and Draco knows it. He silently urges him to—it'll give Harry what he really needs: an outlet. Loosen him up so he can accomplish what he came here to do, act. And Harry—Draco knows this because they're quite similar—has a very deep reserve about him.

"You nosy arse, telling me what I want and don't want!"

"Go on, then," he pushes. "Show me your stuff. Have a little yell about how I'm wrong and you're right, will you? Put me in my proper place, eh? Go on, then."

"You prick, Draco Malfoy! You git!"

Harry's fully furious at last, jolted out of his broody fugue state, and all that energy is attractive as sin. Draco's hard as can be, and he swiftly brings his knees up to his chin, planting his stocking'd feet flat on the cushions and balancing his whisky glass on one of them. It's not ideal, but it'll do in a pinch to hide his reaction.

"Uh-huh," he snickers, smiling blandly. "Right. I am that, Harry. Tell me all about it, why don't you? How insensitive I am—how I've no idea of anything that goes on in your so-important position. How I'm nosy and not much use to anyone, much less a busy Auror."

Harry's so brassed off by that he goes cold, not hot. His eyes glitter exactly like the Chinese jade dragon Draco appropriated from one of the spare sitting rooms because he liked it so much; his lips, which are normally just a shade fuller than Draco's, flatten till they're thin as fillet knives.

Draco shivers; he can't help it. It's always a trial, sorting just how far he can shove Harry's boundaries without damaging the fragile relationship they've been building. So fragile, in fact, he doesn't believe Harry's even aware of it. It's only apparent in how he goes on when he's here, at the Manor; the way he acts when he's with Draco—a different sort of behaviour than he displays with anyone else they know in common.

He's not the same with Draco as he is with, say, Longbottom. Draco's been quite pleased to note that, recently.

"I don't think I will, Malfoy," Harry states firmly, but softly. He collects himself neatly, withdrawing all his limbs so he's a neat compact lump of flashy scarlet and shades of officialdom beneath, perched demurely upon the divan cushion. He's miles away from Draco at this moment and well shielded from insult or injury. The walls have sprung up like stanchions and they're thick as the git's head, really.

"And why not?" Draco demands. He's no choice; if he doesn't break Harry's defences back down to a manageable level, Harry might very well stop coming to him for his lessons. And Draco doesn't want that.

"Because I think I'll do something else, actually." Harry's expression is set; he's giving nothing away as he shifts closer, scooting his arse so quickly across the nubby silk weave of the cushions the fabric hisses in protest. Draco's barely got time to draw breath for the next attack when his grey eyes practically pop out their sockets.

"Like this." Harry's concrete mask has splintered into a devious grin; he's got a hot palm right on Draco's privates and he's pressing down, hard—unrelenting and heavy. "Shut you up, Malfoy, before you get us in trouble. Your tongue is wicked, git—you know it, too. Best put it to better use."

Draco moans. He arches his hips up off the settee involuntarily. Harry's hand is a calloused brand. He can feel the heat and power of it scalding flesh straight through his trousers. He opens his mouth just a bit, wetting his lips with his nearly parched tongue, but doesn't know what to say. How to counter this—or even if he should. This_ is_ unexpected.

"It's working," Harry snickers, pleased. "Very well, too. You're not talking guff anymore, are you?" He rubs deep, rolling Draco's dick beneath his fingers and digging stubby fingernails into giving thigh. It should be painful; it's not. Draco draws breath and holds it. Whatever this is he doesn't want it to stop. "I so like it when it works, don't you?"

"Harry," he says, or rather he mouths, because even though his lungs are straining from being so full of oxygen, there's none to spare to power speech. "Harry."

"Wank much, Malfoy? Must not be. Looks like you could use a bit of this," Harry advises him, conversationally, and that's exactly what he's up to and all at once Draco feels horribly excluded, sitting like a gormless lump under Harry's caressing hand. That can't be right, leaving Harry out. This is too good not to share. He's laid his practiced fingers round the bulge in Harry's breeches before another sly word tumbles out of Harry's lips.

All's fair in love and war, yeah? Draco quirks his eyebrows and snickers silently: the best revenge is living—and living well, and he's got a treat in store for Potter. He flexes his fingers, just as a piano player does at a recital, and leers with much exaggeration.

This_ is_ fun.

"Oh!" Harry's eyebrows shoot up; he thinks so, too. Certainly he approves. "Ohhh, now!" he grunts, bobbing his chin with pleasure. "There—yes! Brilliant!" The furrows in his youthful brow alter; that's not a frown of resentment anymore. "That's alright then," he nods happily, when Draco grips and releases repeatedly, pressing each fingertip down as if he's playing panpipes. "Do that, will you? Feels good."

One of the reasons Draco is attracted to Harry is that he's genuine. For a boy raised in a Manor where manners are all and masks are often donned even in private, this is a rarity. He enjoys it. Harry's always real to Draco—_with_ Draco. He doesn't hide and he doesn't care to. The git does do what he wants; that's true.

"Yes," Draco nods avidly, because yes, it does. It feels better than good—it's fucking sublime, Harry's hand and Harry's cock, both, and he could use more of the combination, really. And maybe some tongue, too.

Thinking exactly that, he leans forward just as Harry does—they do have a similar take on life, really. Lips brush, just barely, and he tastes Muggle whisky, a faint trace of coffee from Harry's afternoon cuppa and salt.

"Um…" Harry says. He levers open his jaw, twists his head and grinds down and across, tongue thrusting aggressively. It's the start of what could be a very interesting snog. Draco struggles to react in a similar fashion, his lips driven against his teeth. He murmurs, twitching and shifting himself so he's more accessible—so Harry can be gotten to, as well. "Mmm?" Harry murmurs, eyes closed. He seems pretty pleased with the response he's getting.

"Mmm," Draco agrees and this_ is_ mad, yes. Merlin help him, this could be an aberration…or not. Hopefully not, then. He'll risk it. Harry's cock is fairly telling; Draco doesn't think he's going to be turned down now.

"I want you to come, Malfoy." Harry nips and bites and near strangles Draco with his tongue. He does everything the same way: all guns blazing or nothing. There is no in-between. "I want you gagging for me. Give it here!"

Draco's agreement to that is tacit; it's in every slight adjustment of his head, his agile hand, pumping—his legs, spreading apart of their own volition, knees sagging. Harry's almost atop him, taking over, and Draco lies back and lets him. Some battles should be lost so the actual war can be won. He chooses his skirmishes wisely—though this is a surprise and a very pleasant one.

"Fucking ace!" Harry's snarling now, and well into it. He's a biter, it seems. Draco will bear the marks of this, surely. He doesn't mind. "Fucking amazing!" He's marvelling over Draco's throat and collarbone, the thrust of pebbled nipples through his thin shirt.

"Yeah," he whispers, and does everything he can in return to drive Harry over the edge in retaliation. Fingers, lips, pressure, heat: it's not enough—not near enough. "Fuck my hand, Harry Potter," he grits. "Fuck it!"

"Ungh!" The sound is faint but welcome. "Oooh!"

"I want your come, Potter!"

Draco's teeth are snapping in frustration; Harry's got his head tilted all the way back against the divan, the first fury vanished beneath the mystical milking of Draco's hand on his bits. This is Draco's chance and he snatches it without a second thought. He's up and over, straddling the smaller man, flattening him so that his thighs are wide open and Draco can milk the sacs he feels through woolen weave. He's got both hands on Harry's bits; his mouth is everywhere and anywhere, till Harry's screwed-up, lust-ridden features are smeared with shared saliva. It's hot, humid, salty—there might very well be blood, too.

Draco couldn't give a fuck over extraneous issues like blood or slime. There's only one reason the universe exists around him and that's to make Harry Potter come. On him, in his grip. At his command.

"Come on, Potter!" Draco urges, and goes to the wall. "You lagging wanker!" There's more he could be doing to make this happen soonest—and he's not some shy shrinking violet. He slithers down Harry's twisting torso and swallows Harry's cock to the hilt, no warning.

"See how you like this, then! Can you bear it? Little git!" His pithy jeers are muffled by a cock that does Harry's wiry, lean physique justice. The man's not a giant, but his dick's a nice shape. Long enough for Draco to get a good suck going on and fall into a rhythm with very little help from his fingers. Thick enough to make his cheeks bulge out when he swallows, forcing the tip of his tongue about the foreskin. He's got one hand shoving Harry's hip into the cushions as a precaution. Git's not getting away, not this time. Not now it's Draco's watch.

"Ungh, ungh, ungh!" Harry's gurgling above him. "Oh! Fuck _me_!"

Draco plans to, one day, but not today.

He's got the t'other hand plastered across his own dick, and it's a bob-and-dodge dance, with slips of tongue to slits and a _ba-ba-boo-di-yea_ beat. Very fast, like a samba. Quite satisfactory: they both ejaculate at right about the same moment, and isn't that a treat?

"Oh, hey," Harry pants, wheezing and red of face, giving Draco's head a little pat. "I needed that, thanks."

He's remarkably sanguine when he comes; Draco files that information away for the future.

When Draco pulls off—with a deliberate pop-and-slurp—he's smirking even as he smacks his smeared lips.

"I know," he remarks urbanely, chin thrust out, silently daring. "Me, too." He cocks an eyebrow at Harry, daring him to make something of what just happened—deny it, maybe, or scuttle off. Be angry or perhaps Gryffindor-righteous.

But Harry lets the challenge pass. It's a new era, don't you know?


	11. S2, Act 2, Scene 4 Emperor's Seamstress

**Stage 2, Act 2, Scene 4.** 'The Emperor's Seamstress'. Malfoy Manor's Nameless Players main work room, located adjacent to the converted Ballroom, and formerly Great-Great-Great Grandmother Lavinia's Sewing Parlour.

Suitably enough, it is presently occupied by another girl nicknamed 'Lav'—a Ms L. Brown, and her retinue of magical tailors and seamstresses. Lavender is in charge of costuming the cast and overseeing all the oddments and gewgaws: jewellery, gloves, fans and the like, hats, scarves and so on. Parvati, Lav's best mate, has the remainder of set design en train…with help from Pansy Parkinson and Millicent Bulstrode. In fact, a whole host of Hogwarts alumnae are called upon for set crew and backstage theatre spellwork, but it's only the costuming corps and a few stragglers and VIPs (Hermione, the General Manager; Harry and Draco, the stars of this particular production; and the Malfoys, who are nearly always in residence, as they reside there anyway) who are out and about in the criss-crossing halls of the Manor.

...Which is not to say there's not a great deal of quiet sentience eddying about. Er, what with the furniture.

* * *

><p>"How do I look?' Harry wants to know. He postures, flourishing so that his epaulets on the uniform flap and the tasselled fringe on his belt sweeps sideways.<p>

"The very image of the modern major general, Potter," Draco shoots back, but then he grins. He nods across the room, where several of their friends-and-fellow Troupers are playing with thread and cloth and what'sits. "But ask Lav—she's the one who knows, Harry."

"Did you want me, then?" Lavender strolls over and peers at Harry. She nods, pleased, just as Harry opens his mouth to ask her the burning question. "How's that fit, by the by?"

"Oh, well," Harry shrugs, lifting his hands. The severe lines actually suit him; he seems more imposing—taller. "It's alright, I guess."

"But it's perfect, Harry!" she beams. "You do look a treat in uniform—even Muggle. Now, Draco, what's needed for you? You've been taken care of?"

"I have, thank you. All right and tight, but…"Draco sticks a hand to his chin, rubbing it thoughtfully. "Hmmm," he mumbles. "I've some picture references in the Drama section of the Library—do you want them? For the rest? I know you'd like a little variety."

Lavender shrugs. "Well, of course. For visual interest, it'd be dandy. Especially if _you_ think it'll help, Draco. You know Hermione's a stickler over these things. Had her down my neck all morning."

"It should, I think. Hermione's been all over it. She practically lives there, you know." He chuckles darkly and casts a knowing glance Harry's way. "Gives my father a start, every time he stumbles across her."

"Oh, really?" Harry grins. "Has she ordered him to reorder everything by alpha under heading yet? Because she will, you know. Nothing if not organized, our Hermione."

"Not yet, but it's likely coming." He turns back to Lavender. "I'll go and choose some useful ones for you, Lav. There's plenty of those Muggle theatre books you can look through—and a great deal of material on fashion. My Mum's rather a follower, you know."

"Thanks, Draco." Lavender's eyes stray to the Mirror behind them, ostensibly to check the taut, perfectly crisp fit of Harry's military style trousers. "Oh!" she exclaims, tilting her head. "Is that..?" She blushes suddenly and both Harry and Draco raise curious eyebrows at her.

"Lav?" Harry prompts. "Everything alright?"

"Oh—oh, it's nothing," Lav says quickly. "Look, er—excuse me for a sec. If Nev's here, I've a question for him. See you two later, alright?"

She's gone and Harry and Draco are left staring after.

"Now what was that all about?" Draco wonders. "As far as_ I_ know—"

"Nev's at Hogwarts, not up till the weekend," Harry finishes for him, a tiny frown just brushing past his make-upped forehead. The scar's been pancaked into oblivion—the part he plays doesn't require it. "Huh," he shrugs. "That_ is_ odd. I wonder why she thought she saw him, yeah?"

"Mmm," Draco agrees, also shrugging. "Curiouser and curiouser. But…oh, well—not important now. In fact, I think I'll be off and retrieve those books for Brown lest I forget. Oh, and oi? You staying for supper, Harry? Mum's got some special meal planned for the ones who stick around and help Lav out with the chorus costumes. Encouragement, I think. Mum's all for it."

"Yes." Harry grins. "Likely. Your elves are the very bane of Hermione's existence, you know; drives her mad to have them serving her. Fun to watch, yeah? And the food's good here."

"Oh, point!"

Draco lets loose a peal of real laughter. It transforms him from a cool git with a pointy face and a haughty air to a very approachable young man. Harry, glancing sideways, approves wholeheartedly.

"Agreed," he snorts happily, slapping Harry a little approving pat on the ornamented shoulder. "Never say you're a dull boy, Potter." He turns to go, but with one last sneaking glance in the mirror. Lav's not the only one who appreciates a superior arse on a man and Harry's got one. "Well, then, I'll see you after fittings are through, alright? We'll go over your lines again."

"Sure," Harry bobs his chin in agreement. "No problem. I'm going to go get the hell out of this." He flips a hand at Lavender's work. "It's bloody uncomfortable."

"Sorry," Draco grimaces in sympathy. "Likely the pins and the sizing."

"Yeah," Harry nods, pulling a face in return. He shifts about on his feet, obviously uncomfortable. "Um, see you."

"Right, right," Draco replies, reluctantly. "Later."

The Mirror of Erised—deemed 'broken' or 'defanged' and therefore harmless—shows two young chaps in process of receding away. Their shoulders bump companionably before they depart in two different directions, going about their various business. The Mirror reflects, truly, exactly and solely what is really happening.

...And who is to say there's no Magic in that?


	12. S2, Act 2, Scene 5 Dragons of an Evening

**Stage 2, Act 2, Scene 5. **The Leaky, tucked away in a corner table; Harry and Draco, of an evening. Or, rather: 'Dragons, of an Evening'

* * *

><p>"You're the sword, Harry. You know?"<p>

Harry squints at him.

"Yeah?"

Draco raises his pint and gestures with it. Waves his other hand round at the smoky atmosphere of the Alley's favoured watering hole.

"Look at them," he says blandly. "All these Aurors—all your mates, right? Same training, same amount of slog put in—even mostly the same experiences with the war and the Dark Lord."

Harry cocks an eyebrow at him, disbelief patent. And mayhap even a tinge of arrogance. He'd defy them all to match his particular experiences during the late, unlamented war!

"Really."

Draco grins. Blushes the merest bit.

"Right, okay—not the same, quite, but you get what I mean, yes?"

"I s'pose so. And what's your point?"

"They go out every day, risking their lives," and here his eyes alight on Dean and Seamus, whooping it up with a gaggle of fresh recruits in the one corner and holding hands, too, on the top of their table. "They do the dirty work, Harry, and, for the most part, they're really happy to. So what's your problem, mate? Why won't you just let them get on with it? Why do you allow yourself to get so upset?"

Harry frowns, blackly. Slams his pint glass down, though quietly; enough so the beer nuts bounce in their glass dish.

"You know why, Malfoy! It's a fucking waste, that's what! I _am_ trained—I _do_ know! Fuck, I think I've more than proved I know what I'm doing, alright? But Dawlish and Kings and the whole fucking lot of them won't let me! It's—it's infuriating, that's what!"

"Harry." Draco shakes his blond head, smirking. "You're the sword, remember? You're already doing your job. They don't need you to do any more."

"What the fuck does that actually mean?" Harry snorts, angrily. "You keep saying it—'I'm the sword, the _sword_'—but so what? I'm hardly that if I'm pushing a goddamned quill! Don't be an utter arse!"

"Harry." Draco places his barely touched pint on the table and reaches out a damp fingertip, running it gently across Harry's crinkled forehead. "I'm saying you're the symbol. Their symbol. And that's all you need be, mate. Just that."

"I am?" Harry's not getting it, not at all. He's not a symbol—he's a full-blown Auror! And he's not happy—and hasn't been for ages! "What the fuck, _so_? _So_?" He jolts his beer and it sloshes. The trickle of sticky down his sleeve leaves him contrarily pleased. "It doesn't necessarily follow that I want to be! I mean, it's not bloody fair, alright? Surely you can see that?"

Draco's cool as a cucumber. And patently patient, which hardly does the stomach acid churning in Harry's gut any good.

"Harry, they need you night where you are. Okay? Right there, sitting in your posh office in the Ministry, just breathing. _Safely_ breathing. You're the last word—the not-so-secret weapon. You're what they have if it ever becomes as bad as it was when the Dark Lord was around—the big, shiny, terrifying sword they can rattle in its sheath and scare the living shit out of anyone who needs it. Of course they don't want you at risk, chasing down purse snatchers and chicken shit like that. Why would they?"

"Oh?" Harry's not sure about that. If that was true, why did Kings promise him a position. "I don't think so, Draco. I think you've got it all wrong. They're just stringing me along—"

"Oh, get logical, Potter!"

"S'cuse me?" Harry's affronted.

Draco finally huffs, impatient. Tosses a peanut at him—which Harry snags, sneers at and finally tosses over his shoulder.

It rattles down the planking wall their tiny table backs up to and joins the million more, squashed on the disgusting Friday-night floor.

"Harry, using you as a regular Auror would be like using a Muggle Uzi to knock cat food tins off my terrace baluster—it's purely overkill. Completely too, too much. The other sods can't be doing their jobs if they have to worry their heads over _Harry Potter_. And you need to back the fuck off and let them. Worry about your own damned job—and your life outside it."

That's not what he's really expected Draco to say…even though Draco's been saying much the same thing, in differing variations, for quite a while now. But never so clearly and to the point.

"I…I don't understand, quite." Harry runs his finger round the rim of his glass, cogitating. "So, er, you're telling me I should just eat this situation? Bend over, let them go right ahead with passing me over, day after sodding day, and just sit tight on my bum in my blasted office and do _nothing_? All because _you_ say I'm some stupid rallying point for the troops? That's shit reasoning, Draco—that can't be it. It just can't."

"Well," Draco sips his pint slowly, settling his narrow arse in the bench seat opposite. "It is, rather." His free hand rises and edges over to Harry's circling one, then rests upon it slowly, so the irritating ringing noise ceases with a tinny echo. "Which doesn't change anything, really. That's what you do best, isn't it? Being the very centre of it all; the eye of the storm."

"Oh, now look here—"

"No! No, it's what you've always excelled at, Harry—garnering attention. Lots of attention, wanted or not—deserved or no. And that's what's needed, at least right now. You, pal o' mine, are their sword—their Grail, even. They need you like that, man. Face it, alright? It's the way it is, now….and think of this. You're the bloke who made it so."

"I don't see—I mean, that's nonsense!"

He sets his pint down again—he's barely been drinking it; not like Harry, who's gone through half of his in three large gulps—and props his pointy chin on his fist. The grey eyes are back to bland, fires banked. Harry watches him, curiously—disbelieving.

"First off, if Shacklebolt has a brain in his great big head, he's not risking you. He needs you around, alright? Same goes for the rest of them. They need you in Aurors, Harry—no question. But they don't need you actually Auroring your arse off like some kamikaze prat, okay? You've more than done your part—give it a bloody rest. Let them do theirs. Let the system work like it's supposed to. For once."

He sniffs; his opinion of the system isn't the highest and Harry knows it.

"I—I!" That sticks in Harry's craw something awful.

"Save the hero-ing for when it's needed, okay? That's all. And have some damned fun, Harry—you're allowed, you know?"

"….Save the hero-ing? Did you actually just say that to me, Draco Malfoy?" Harry can't help but laugh. It's so far removed from everything before, this sitting in the Leaky with Draco Malfoy, discussing Harry's frustrations with his job with the git, just like a regular yob. So. Very. Far. "I can't believe you, sometimes. You! You're bloody incorrigible, you know? I'm hardly doing that, okay? Or, at least—it's not as I want to be. That's the point, yeah? Have you even been listening?"

"No, Harry." The hand over his hand clenches and Draco leans across the table between them, his eyes grave and earnest. All the knowing twinkle has been extinguished; Harry has the distinct impression Draco's been wanting to say whatever words will follow for quite some time. "You're not twigging. They more than want you safe—they_ require_ you safe. As do I, Harry—all your friends do."

"Well, thanks—" Harry blushes; he can't help it. "That's very nice of you—"

"_Listen_ to me; I'm not through yet."

"Alright, but—"

"You really have done enough—more than enough. You need to cultivate a life, Harry. You may be a weapon—you may be their sword, but they love you. They want the best for you, dolt. You owe it to them to have it."

"But—I—what?" Harry's concept of the 'best for him' and his mates' hasn't always coincided precisely. Draco knows that, so why…? "No—no, Draco. It's not like that. Really, it isn't."

"Tell me, d'you like acting? Is it fun for you?"

Their clasped hands have drifted down to lay upon the stained and sticky surface; stray nut skins cling to their shifting fingertips. Harry rolls his knuckles in Draco's grasp, considering this new thing seriously. Draco's questions are sometimes rhetorical, sometimes glib, but always clever. He knows enough now to understand there's usually some point to them, even if he doesn't always see the reason right up front.

And this hasn't felt confrontational—none of it. It's only two mates talking about boring mundane shit. _His_ boring mundane shit, actually. Draco's in earnest; Harry's listening hard as he can…but it's hard to hear, the Leaky's so crowded.

With Aurors, mostly, and that gets his goat. _Their _robes are dusty—his is clean._ Their_ faces are tired; he's just blah. Bored, bored, bored, off his bloody nut. And it's not fair and it's not right, but that's not Draco's question, is it?

He wants something else, the bugger—as always. Something different from what Harry would really like to obsess over, for a while longer.

"Harry?"

With a little start, Harry pulls himself back to meet Draco's grey eyes. They are…very deep—and even mysterious tonight. Funny, that effect, when they started off the evening with a metallic, light-hearted glint to them. A sheen of delight—and where is that now?

"Um…sort of?" he ventures, recalling a few moments of absolute hilarity during freeform rehearsals and costume-fittings…and few other moments—also of delight-all taking place during his private coaching experience, and many of which have escalated into something far different from the topic of memorizing lines and spitting them out in order.

Yes—he can safely say he likes acting—if acting involves regularly getting his rocks off with Draco Malfoy. "I mean, it's different from what I'm used to—"

"Is it, so much?" Draco's gaze is humorous once more; the moment of sobriety has fled. "Not so sure about that."

"Eh?" Harry shrugs, not certain what Draco's implying now. "Well, whatever—it is. I've never done anything like, not before. Playing dress up and talking like a ninny, that is. Poncing. And all those bloody words! Jeez, it's hard work, you know? My head hurts, sometimes, something fierce! Can't begin to recall them all, you have me revising so many!"

"Hah!" Draco's tilting his head back—it's a nice line of neck on him, swan-like and firm; Harry licks his suddenly dry lips—and peals out laughter. "You—oh, you tit, Harry! Of course it's all about words! That's the meat of it—the core. It's what we're supposed to _do_, idjit—give them life. Make 'em real, enough so the people watching us can believe in us, given half a chance."

"Yeah," Harry shrugs again. He knows that, yes, but he's not seen it in practice yet. "I guess. But…it's alright. Acting. Um…really not what I imagined as a hobby, actually, but well enough."

"Bet you saw yourself playing Quidditch, didn't you?" Draco's eyes snap with amusement; he's teasing Harry now and the subject of the Aurors is already sinking back into the muck of Harry's mind. But that's alright—he doesn't need to think about it every single second of his existence. It's enough that he knows it brasses him off, what they're doing to him, and one day he'll make sure he sets the situation straight. "Of course you did."

But not this day—not this particular moment. 'Cause he's out on a date, of sorts, and it's enjoyable, watching Draco Malfoy laugh at him. Really. It _is_.

"No! Merlin, no! Why ever would I? I'm a Seeker by trade and I'm a good stone or more than I was at my best, back in the day. Besides, I did grow a little, you know? Supposed to be built like a jockey when you're a Seeker, yeah?"

Draco smirks goodnaturedly. There's something about staring dragons in the fiery maws for a year or more that draws out the 'mellow' in a chap. And this is certainly the better position he has now: all matey with Potter and the liquor flowing.

"Oh, dunno about that._ I_managed and I was always taller than you, shrimp. And you're hardly a bean-pole now. Think you could do it, if you wanted. Notice I say 'if', please."

Harry snorts into his foam. Ted's just waved a new pint into existence before him; Draco's still ignoring his old one, so it stays pat. Tom's no waster of resources. But there's a frost of rime on Harry's; Tom takes good care of his best customers and the patronage of Malfoy and Potter both are valued.

"But I don't want—that's just the thing. It's done with—over. I mean I loved it—still love it when I play at the Burrow—but…it's done. It's not what I want, alright?"

"Do you want to act, maybe? Harry?" Draco's expression has changed yet again. Harry thinks he can make out a genuine concern there. Draco sighs at him, which lends the idea credence. "I hope so," he says slowly, and then perks up in his seat, going all sharp and 'Malfoy' once more. "There's no one else to match my presence on stage, you realize? Not even that little dweeb Scamander—he's far too wet for my liking." Draco sneers, but the anxiety's still there. "What a twat."

"I guess I must, yeah?" Harry tilts his head and really thinks about it, likely for the first time since Ginny had informed him in no uncertain terms she expected him to do it, this acting lark. 'Take up a hobby, Harry," she'd implored him, just before twisting his arm, metaphorically. Plus there'd been Luna—and Hermione, with her air of constant anxious hopefulness and her insanely hormonal urge to sort out all the details of her friend's lives to her own satisfaction. She was happy—she wanted Harry happy, too. "Since I keep coming back to you for more punishment."

"Punishment?"

He casts his eyes down at his glass, demurely. But he can see Draco's lifting his chin in a minor form of snit. Momentary, of course, and the prat does it to amuse, mostly, but still—Harry's treading on dangerous ground. Draco does acting like he does everything else, wholeheartedly, flinging himself into it. He must do, 'cause he cuts Harry very little slack.

"God, man! Pantos are never punishment, unless it's child acrtors! Don't you know anything?"

So imperious! Harry is visited with the fantasy of dragons in faraway Romania, marching quickstep to Draco's commands and toeing the line, fire-breathing bastards or no.

It's funny to think of and he has to laugh...which leads naturally to Draco glaring at him and tightening his fingers harshly on his mug handle.

_"What,_ Potter? You think it's beneath you or something? Prancing about on a stage, making people forget their troubles for a little while?" There's a hobby horse in the room, suddenly, ever as large as the Trojan one, and Draco's thinking about climbing aboard, clearly, for he's scowling. "Huh! Not worth your effort in the long run, hero? Cause you'd better not be thinking of ducking out now. We've hardly gotten this carriage started."

"I'm not—I'm not!" Harry's hastily denying it—though, to be truthful, he had thought about skiving off the whole silly-arse nonsense back when he was first dragged in. "I swear I'm not!" But not now. Not now. Not when they—all his friends, and Draco's friends, and the Malfoys and Weasleys, too—are enjoying this so much. "I wouldn't, git!"

"...Really?"

And he means that, most sincerely. Draco smiles instantly in reply, and the tension isn't over the subject of whether or not Harry wants to play at acting anymore—it's something else. He takes a deep breath, silently, and revels in it.

"Look, you'd better mean that, okay? I've a lot invested in you now, Potter, and...and I want you, you know? Also now. We may as well go."

It's not a suggestion, nor even a command. It's a plain statement, no flourishes. Harry feels his always-nascent interest take notice. Draco's very matter of fact about his wishes and sudden fancies, but the twitch of his lips isn't. His eyes narrow and they're molten with want, just as admitted.

"Let's."

Harry's pint is happily abandoned; he wasn't that thirsty anyway, 'specially since he's been sitting on his lazy arse all day, writing up reports for other, _active_ Aurors.

But that's all right—not important right now, certainly. No, a shag would be a fine thing, and here's one, waiting on him.

"Come on, then," he adds, already mostly on his feet. "Back to mine?"

"Yeah. Yes. Please." Draco nods jerkily, up and yanking Harry furiously round the table edge in a blink; taking up his arm for Side-Along. Harry's trousered thighs kiss Draco's in passing and they're both already hot and damp through the layers. "_Yeah_."


	13. S2, Act 2, Scene 6 Practise Makes

**Stage II, Act 2, Scene 6. **Malfoy Manor, 'Rehearsal Room Two', formerly the Peacock Terrace Room.

The Mirror has been shifted again, Lavender having pronounced it unsatisfactory. Every actor or actress reflected within its ornately carved frame appears ever so much more good-looking and well-apparelled than they really are. It's disconcerting.

It's misleading.

But no one sees anything particularly odd or out-of-the-ordinary in this particular little quirk of spellwork. The come-and-go glitch is dismissed as incidental, a 'residue of sorts', or so says Neville, given that the Mirror was—once—a most immensely powerful magical item.

It's mostly harmless now, of course.

Present in the Peacock Terrace Room (a masterpiece of blues, teals and flooffy feathery motifs, all with a distinctly Oriental flare) are the two principal male actors of the as yet Nameless Troupe: Draco and Harry.

Harry, decked out in a blue superfine frock coat atop a seriously dandified embroidery-covered waistcoat, fawn breeches that are tighter and more form-fitting than the fine sheen of actual sweat decorating his scarred brow and, finally, utterly brilliantly polished knee-high black leather Hessian boots, is stationed approximately ten feet back and away from the mostly harmless Mirror and squarely before it. It has become both his audience and the bounds of his imaginary stage. Assured repeatedly that it's relatively useless and having not seen—much—out of the ordinary, he, too, has come to regard the Mirror of Erised as nothing more than a simple sheet of reflective glass, aging in place.

It gives him nothing more than what he is, now—an amateur actor.

Harry's neckcloth is white and starched till it gleams; the pointy tips of his collar chafe his chin, they are so obnoxiously elevated. He pauses and paces in the world Draco Malfoy has mapped out for him, declaiming before the nearly floor-to-ceiling height mirror, ever aware of his own every facial nuance, though he's found the ability somewhere within to appear as though he's not really minding what he does at all.

_He's_ Hamlet; _he's_ Horatio Hornblower—he is _not _Harry Potter, not at this moment, at least. His voice rings strident and mellifluous in the quiet of the room, clear and steady; his hands are infinitely expressive.

It's been months now and Draco—the tyrant—has deemed Harry nearly ready for consumption by his ever-loving public.

"Go on, then," the smirking tyrant prods, quietly. He leans his wide shoulders against the wall, amused eyes narrow in anticipation.

"It is awfully hard work doing nothing," Harry remarks meditatively, hoity-toity and full of the essence of not-himself. He clicks his shiny stacked boot heels together on the next striking thought, earning a rapid nod of approval from his mentor. "However," he continues, Puss-'n-Boots smarmy, "I don't mind hard work where there is no definite object of any kind."

"Mmm." Draco smiles, contented. He licks a fingertip and draws an imaginary tick in the air, tilting his chin inquisitively. "Good-oh. And…the next one? Harry?"

"To be or not to be, that is the question!" Harry exclaims immediately, striking an entirely different pose altogether. Suddenly the air is filled brimful with Wild Magic: the sheer teal curtains riffle upon their brass rods; a chord sounds from the hugely overwrought golden harp standing in the corner.

He turns his chin, slyly, quickly, and peeps over his reflected shoulder at the man lounging a little ways behind him, propped up against the papered wall. His eyes become devious slits. An infinitely subtle rise to his padded shoulders and a lift of his chin lends him all the majesty of mad kings. He straightens his spine to full extension, seems to swell and tower. Calf muscles ripple smoothly 'neath the tight breeches.

"Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune…or to take arms against a sea of troubles and, by opposing, end them."

Yes, Harry is without question a Prince of Denmark. His tutor bobs his shapely chin quite sharply, grey eyes depthless as moonlit waters and drinking in every small piece of Potter-flourish and Harry-fire.

"...Oh." Harry pauses in his wallow of emotion, taking a deep breath, inflating his lungs and pushing out his chest as he spins on a heel and begins a slow stalk towards his audience. "To die," he begins again, but softly, nay, as if it were a real possibility, his death, "to sleep—" and softer yet, almost whispering, "no more—"

"Harry—" Draco Malfoy pushes his back off the wall with a twist and a elegantly lurching stumble. It's too much—too close to the bone, this. "Harry, you can stop there—no more!"

"And by a sleep to say we end the heartache, and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to. 'Tis a _consummation_—"

"Harry!" his teacher calls out, staccato. "Cease, I tell you! Something else, please, for Salazar's sake!"

They've met, halfway betwixt wall and Mirror, colliding in unhappy haste and emotive inattentiveness.

"Oh! Oof!" Harry grunts when he's enveloped by long arms.

"Mmmm…c'mere!"

"Uhmmm..." Could be Draco, could be Harry; there's no telling who's moaning when the sound is muffled like that. "Mnphf!"

But then…there's naught but a busy silence full of squishy notes, crescendoing like the monstrous harp—moist, dark intimate noises, made by lips smacking, tongues travelling and the rustle of rumpling fabric. Harry_ is_ Beau Brummell compared to Draco's fashionable SoHo denim rags (ripped at the knees, acid-burnt, and topped with a smart-alecky t-shirt): 'Slytherins,' it proclaims, 'Do It Deep in the Dungeons. Best House Ever!' But what the two men wear upon their skins is of no consequence; it's the clutching of white-knuckled fingers, the breathy inhalations and the little moans—the raw stench of rutting. Garb is but something to be got rid of, asap.

"Harry, something—different," Draco gasps in a vaguely harassed manner, pulling away after a very long while breathless and red-cheeked. His eyes implore. "Something _else_, but not death, please. I don't like it—it's so final—and not from _you_."

"It's only words, prat—" Harry twinkles up, twisting an ankle flirtatiously, as if he knows something Draco does not; it's infuriating. "Only words—words _you've_ taught me."

"Words have power, Potter," Draco snaps, instantly affronted—turned on, too, as he doesn't release any bit of Harry by even an _n__th_ of a particle, only holding him more closely than most humans can. His kneecap's budged firmly between Harry's thighs; Harry's practically riding one of Draco's straining legs. "Words are...don't say...Harry, oh!"

"Please," Harry laughs and shuts him up, his mouthy tutor. They shift, with the crackle of failing starch and the susurration of fine-gauge cotton. Ankles twine, bared sockless knobby joint bone wrapping round smooth leather sheath, smudging. Blurring into one another and back out: a kaleidoscope of meeting, mingled flesh and cloth, damp and sweet-tart.

He needn't have even said 'please', not to Malfoy. They kiss. They _always_ kiss, these days of wonder; spend hours going at it if they can manage. And Malfoy Manor lets them manage almost all they could ever like.

"Harry," Draco whines after a bit, muffled by passing visits to neck and nipple and warm armpit. He fiddles with the neckcloth. "Harry."

Harry's colour is high within the frame of his wilting shirt points and his eyes glitter knowingly, alive with the borrowed art of seduction, when he draws away just enough to smirk wet lips. He regards his coach in all things acting, pouting as a Barrymore would, sultry as a Gish, and is well aware the tilt to his mouth is borrowed directly from his teacher, and gladly enough given.

"You're a distracting git, I'll give you that," he remarks, which is no reply a'tall. "But?"

"Mm?" Draco narrows his eyes suspiciously, but the grey is vastly soft and warm, withal. "What?"

"Teach me more?"

"More? More of this?" A set of willfully possessive fingers tighten on a hip bone, jutting.

"No, no."

It has Malfoy smiling a little in return, at least, Harry's ploy. That's something good.

"If you dislike mine so much, teach me others," he gibes, smiling wider in just that way he knows always gets to Draco; success_ is _sweet, even when small. "Oh, great Panjandrum."

"Oh, shut that mouth! Or I'll shut it for you. How 'bout that?" Draco snorts a choked laugh and Harry's cut off mid-plea by yet another lengthily throbbing snog; one which lingers like sandalwood incense in the air when they end it, gasping; so long and so intensive Harry's wheezing when he finally catches breath to continue, pulling oxygen into starved lungs by sheer will alone.

"No! Teach me—what you—" he gasps, and Draco is fast to lap his lips, nibbling.

"Shh!"

Like a serpent downing a mouse, Harry's tutor offers no surcease—no mercy, no from this hungry man. "No..." Harry is determined, though. "Show me—_tutor me_—what _you _want me to say, Draco—and how to say it!"

"Oh, right, then. Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously," Harry snaps back. "Of course seriously. Did you forget I have to trot up on a blasted stage at the end of all this nonsense and actually perform? I'm not about to make a fool of myself, Draco!"

"Huh," shrugs a pink-cheeked Malfoy, not letting go of his quicksilver Potter for an instant. "You really mean this?"

He grins, a boyish twist of lip, duly satisfied and pleased with his own efforts to derail and distract his student. There's a moment, while he tilts his pale head and muses fondly over this pleasantly bedroom-eyed Potter, one errantly ruffled eyebrow lofted. Teasing, Draco finds, is the veriest delight when done up properly and when one has a person of like mind to josh with; Potter's got a sense of the delicious ridiculous tucked away under that Gryffindor air he wears like a bloody king's mantle. He wonders how he never realized it, all those many years. That the very best of teasing is the small act of giving frivolous pleasure from one to another, done by pins-and-needle pricks, pointy and bittersweet. Lured, he eggs it on, the banter. Potter is every so attractive when Slytherin. "Wasn't sure if..." He blinks down at Auror Potter, as if puzzled. Oh, he's not...but he'll act it.

"Mmm." Harry nods sharply. "Yes, please."

"So? You'll say anything I like, then?" A hand slithers down Harry's spine: protective, again possessive, cupping arse, fondling bollocks on the sly. "Anything at all? Something outrageous, perhaps? Wilde, mayhap? Shaw? I do so love Shaw."

"Anything!" Harry vows—flaming Gryffindor peeking fiery through all his guises—and clawing in and against and practically through Draco's remaining clothes simply to get at him, the meat of him.

The 'meet' of _them_, really. Like the dip in a tango, the close-up spin of a perfectly executed waltz, the passion contained in one word is all any demanding director could wish for; everything an _ad hoc_ amateur acting coach could envision displayed on his stage."You want it, you've got it," he declares. "On my honour!"

"_Anything_," Draco echoes, nodding at Harry's quick grin, and knows exactly what _he_ promises. But, for later. Now, they need to focus, attend to diction and pacing and so forth. Later, he'll dig up more practise monologues for Harry's edification; he'll dedicate hours to helping Harry memorize them and spit them forth again, properly in character. Now, though? Now, he cannot afford to be boggled by Potter's own voice, Potter's own tongue, promising him 'anything'. "Never...never mind that, now. Harry!"

It's a formless, aimless exclamation; Draco's truly not sure what next to turn to: acting or snogging?

He's preaching to the bloody choir. Two minds, one aim. Glued together at crotch and hip, they're both so mindlessly excited neither knows exactly what nor of which they actually speak—neither cares for that, either. The words themselves are empty scraps of static; lightened by desire and airy enough to take wing and follow only whimsy. This moment of collision is pure fun and Harry, for one, is so grateful to be deep in it, he can't think—no, can't wait, either.

"No. Everything." He's not to be outdone or upstaged; he's sincere, and it bursts out of him. "Anything you wish of me, Master Malfoy," he purrs, batting eyelashes behind knocked-askew spectacles, gathering all he knows now of Monroe and Garbo, all he has learnt of the art of wheedling, "as you're my proctor—my tutor." The lenses don't gleam half as bright as his gaze and Draco growls hungrily even as Harry cocks a wildly impudent chin up at him. "My very own—" he pauses, licking lips before Draco's intent gaze—"and very valuable personal tour guide. To the 'culture'. Fancy," his voice is abruptly nasal and redolent of a perilous mock-Cockney, "H'Iv'e never 'ad any sort ah' culture 'fore naaoow."

"Be serious," Draco scowls instantly, stung for reasons he couldn't explain. "You're not being serious."

Potter is irrepressible once started. "But I am being," he ripostes promptly, and the way he's slipped modes and moods so quickly is irritating to the extreme for his self-proclaimed guide. He goes so far as to press his hips meaningfully against the narrow cradle of Draco's; they both flinch at the heated contact. "You're just not appreciating how terribly, awfully, horribly _serious_ I am, Malfoy."

"Hah! There's more to Shakespeare than mere tragedy and comedy, Harry Potter," Draco replies staunchly—harshly, as he is not amused by Harry's sudden so-plastic wiles—and stiffens as he drops his thrust-out jaw to the level of Harry's ear, nosing aside an errant curl of black silk as he buries his flushed face there. He has wiles of his own and the sense to use them; his student clearly requires to shoved mercilessly back on track! "Much more," he adds, nipping at Harry's jaw for attention. "There's sonnets, f'r'instance, lots of them. There's poetry, to ease the soul and soothe the wayward mind. Want to hear some? It might…help settle your mood, just a bit. You're far too serious, all the sudden," he grouses irritably. "Or maybe you are joking. Or...but, _something_. Too much, Potter. For _my_ liking, at least." It dawns on him he doesn't like a Harry Potter who is changeable, so much a chameleon. "What's got into you?" he frets, tugging his protégé a little closer yet. "You're usually so reluctant."

"Am I?"

"Ye—" Another hasty kiss from Harry halts them both from trespassing too far down what could be a very muddy road…or perhaps it's Draco's rapidly wilting self-control when confronted wholesale by the intriguingly sexy rumple that is Potter clad in Regency glory and all sly-boots with it, for his quick irritation departs just as quickly, wavering into nothingness. He is so very erect it physically pains him, and that's not helping at all. "You are," he assures him. "Be Harry again. Please."

"...Harry? But I;m always Harry." Harry's fawn breeches are indeed practically poured on to his thighs and hips—and his own favourite old denims are thin as gossamer silk, too, after much elf laundering. He can feel what seems like absolutely everything through them: the sketch of bone, the sinew and throb of pulse, and especially the other cock pressed hard up against his own. His own, which has not once flagged in interest through all this extraneous badinage. He's in serious danger of being seduced from his duty and he knows it—and that will do Potter no good in the long run. Nor the Player's long-anticipated opening night.

"Harry." If anything, Draco seeks to calm and quiet; that's why he's entangled himself so inextricably around and about this fascinating little git."You're not."

"I'm...sorry; I'll stop." Harry, startled, is all honesty, a welcome relief. Draco sighs.

"Please...do."

"Mmm..."

Oh, but peace between them. The cessation of high-wire tension, that's it. The entire mood of the room—all the stage too, really—has undergone yet another sea change, surely. Lights subtly soften and pink, dramatic periods and exhortations are a fleeting thing of the immediate past and Draco receives no instant reply other then Harry's inarticulate murmur of acceptance. But he needs the words _not_: it's all 'business' at the moment: hands and expressions, tells and non-verbal clues.

Draco may not even _care_; it's highly debatable whether any further teaching will occur between student and master.

"Ungh..." Harry absolutely doesn't give a damn, either. All the theatre arts worth learning right now are completely non-verbal. Hands, eyes, lips, expression. And Draco Malfoy is exceptionally good at expressing himself in relative mummery, _sans_ scripting.

They sink together, tiff forgotten.

It's a bit like sex, but standing up. The mated bones at hip and knee have been fully introduced once more and have begun a slow, sinuous roll; to and fro, in tandem beat, as smoothly a deep ocean current swells high and low, Siren-like and seductive, as eyelids droop and hearts thunder but the atmosphere is far from heavy or cloying. It's tinged with the taste of salt and the tangy remnants of post-dinner port; Harry was invited to stay on for supper again, apparently. Harry's always invited, nowadays.

Narcissa likes him very much; she's said so. Lucius, maybe not so much. No matter.

"...Harry?" After a bit, Draco comes to, curiousity rising. This is lovely, ever so, but he's supposed to coaching Harry, not eating him up alive.

"Mmm." Harry rolls his drowsy head upon his aching neck when they arrive at a sloppy finish, a floppy pale flower on a strong pale stem. He's developed a crick in it, from lurching up on tiptoe and accepting the plunge of tongue down his throat from the taller man. He swallows excess saliva and they pause, returned to merely breathing, and each of them blinks sleepily and happily ponders next-steps. Harry's just about to initiate his preferred version, but Draco grazes musing across his throat, dampening stiff white linen with stray moisture, lipping at tiny pearlized buttons, preoccupied. "Mmm, yessss, Draco," Harry mutters, well pleased to have started up again. "Yes, _please_. Whatever you say. Whatever you want."

"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day, then?" Draco's voice is turned mocking-sweet, 'cept for the deep tremor that betrays any residual Malfoy 'cool' he might cling to. And it's stifled by the dampened skin of a succulent earlobe, so cool and guarded is a ridiculous concept, really, in the context. He shifts his clenching hands; presses harder, grasps with purpose. Turns his jaw so he can fix his recalcitrant student with a fish-eyed glare. "Tell you 'god has given you one face, yet you make yourself another'?"

Had Harry ever wanted recently to see that Malfoy composure slipping, he's been granted his wish.

"And 'false face must hide what the false heart must know', Potter," Draco grits in his ear. "'This above all: to thine own self be true'. _Harry_!"

Harry shivers as he gives way to the mouth that retakes his with a certain degree of careful ferocity, allowing yet more intimacy on his tutor's part. There's very little left in his mental reserve to give away, in truth—and clearly soon to be even less.

Draco is a bit maddened. This on-again, off-again attitude of Potter's is not what he wants to see, not when it's only the two of them.

"'You have witchcraft in your lips'! 'Tempt not a desperate man'!"

Grey eyes flash, as borrowed famous words form in his quick, capacious mind, ready to be punctuated with nips and kisses. They tremble suddenly on the tip of his tongue—but still into mute when taste takes precedence.

He can't help himself—and Harry very clearly doesn't want for him to stop.

Harry squeaks helplessly when one eager chomp is particularly sharp; rising fever escalates between them, measured in slow wavelets of mounting red and humid inhalations.

Knees wobble precariously. It's only because they're both fit and trim they remain upright at all…or perhaps it's all that flying both have known.

"Sorry! Sorry, want you—" Draco makes haste to groan, interrupting himself before he even begins to speak of the Muggle Bard's words of love. 'Love' is not, after all, what builds between them…yet. "_Want_ you. So much so—so much so! But—but—I was just now saying—wasn't I?"

With a cat-like blink Harry nods approvingly as Draco takes up the tasselled reins of poesy once more; it's yet more ornate polished words but these words are so very welcome.

"'Thou art more lovely and more temperate," Draco murmurs, every other word intersected by a tooth-scraping kiss up Harry's available neck. It vibrates, alive, 'neath Draco's lips. "Rough winds—" Draco pants. "Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, and summer's lease hath all too short a date. Harry—!"

But he can speak to desire; is allowed that at least, and here is all what Draco desires.

And Harry, as well. He wouldn't dream of vouchsafing a word of romantic babble unless compelled at wandpoint but he groans louder under his lover's ministrations all the same, then all at once sets his swollen lips in a straight, thin line and retaliates in kind, fierce as any in his old House. It's instinctive, that. 'This, above all: to thine own self be true' comes readily to mind, if Draco is to be quoting yet more laden words at him, slithery and two-faced, this artful serpentine path down to a dark Eden shall apparently _not_ be a one-way alley!

"Hah!—Harry…Harry."

_No, no_, Harry resolves, shaking his a lá Brutus-curls. He's dragging Draco along with him, tumbling into a crevasse—and Draco's more than willing to stumble with, headlong.

But. Oh, but!

"Grr! Nrrgh!" There's a startling glimpse of the powerful Auror reflected in the Dandy: live incendiary ember buried glowing in amber. Harry has never quite let go of his intrinsic 'Harry', even now, when so dearly distracted—and such leashed power is cruelly seductive in any guise.

….As Draco knows all too well. He mourns Harry's fabled willpower even as he craves the strength that fuels it, but he's already well gone, drunk on it and happy enough to be so, responding with a stifled moan of his own, tonguing the delicate crevice of ear, the generous sweep of dark stubble just poking through all that tasty breadth of smooth cheek and strong jaw. He lets it go, this minor malfeasance. The coming reward is too great to risk.

They do not always merely, only _tease_, he and Potter.

"_Draco_."

Draco redoubles his actions, so spurred: slurping and smacking, sucking and mouthing. If Harry were a crumpet, he'd be only stray buttery crumbs left over on the china—and Draco wouldn't hold back from licking his damned plate!

Harry's neck is all over wetter and glistening snail-trails within seconds; he moans inaudibly as flexing soaking tongue muscle digs strongly into flesh, compressing his trachea, his own fingertips trembling where they gouge deep into Draco's nape and waist. The snarky, taunting t-shirt's ridden high up and pearly waist coat fastenings are torn asunder; no one recalls when that happened—it doesn't matter. Draco's jaw gapes over the taut cords of tendon as if he'd like to rip them out—but it's only steady suction he applies, pursing lips drifting across the fragrant expanse. His hands are that of mad musician's, always at play, at play, and Harry's torso and buttocks his arc of octave.

"Draaaa…co?"

Harry's eyes narrow to slits of determined viridian: he's still aware, nominally. He's accustomed to attack, as an Auror and little fazes him, even this. 'Style largely depends on the way the chin is worn,' or so spake that amazingly prescient Muggle Wilde. He's learnt the use of it, upon demand. Too true: 'They are worn very high, just at present.'

Hands have fully entered the area of play: now, in particular, _Harry's_. He's got his hot palm wedged into the minute gap between them and spread wide over Draco's cock, pressing firmly through the thin fabric and rolling his fingers in a viciously sinful caress. The effect is immediate: his tutor ceases any silly-arse quoting immediately, though his jaw works and his long throat struggles to swallow. It may be that he can no longer speak.

Harry grins. Draco whines wordlessly and low, the sound descending to a guttural moan as the flies of his denims are so firmly indented against Harry's palm they score ridges and red-printed weals in the flesh of Harry's thenar. And the foppish costume so carefully crafted by Mesdames Brown and Bulstrode has at last crumpled into near ruin under Draco's grim and greedy returning grasp.

Daunted by none of it, and conversely, perversely fired up by Potter's energy, Draco scrambles to schieve _more_—_harder_. Just _more_, actually—all he can get.

Naturally, the little git he's blissfully assaulting has no bloody idea of when to leave things well enough alone and let Nature take her course; he's still chatting!

"Flattery," Draco's acting student mutters, from his advantage risen up on a booted toe-tip to nip flinching skin right through the battered cotton weave of the mildly risqué t-shirt, "will have you everywhere you might want to be, Draco Malfoy. Remember that, now—everywhere…and any old where you like. Do you follow?"

"Everywhere?" Draco chokes, two hands fisting Harry's arsecheeks roughly. But…he's knocked oddly off-kilter as to next-steps, for he'd very much like to slam his captive up against a wall—but then, he _cannot_.

"Well, fuck!"

_No_. No easy fuck to be had, cheers. They are instead virtually stranded—an island of frustrated desire in a room that boasts only a scatter of visually troublesome upholstered chairs and smallish scalloped-edge tables. And the harp and Mirror, of course. The mirror is doing its usual job of work, regardless: reflecting, but neither man spares it so much as a single glance. As it's useless for the immediate purpose.

"Uh-huh," Harry nods eagerly, if a bit wobbly. "Yes, that's the ticket. Please, then?"

There's this one thought come hovering to them both, separately arrived, and could be writ as a dialogue bubble over their touselled heads of hair, it is of such huge import: 'My kingdom for a bloody mattress!'

"Everywhere _I _want to be?" Stymied, Draco tries hard for that easy, casual conversing thing again and this time strikes a quarter-note of his usual calm composure—but barely. He tosses in a spare compliment, because, well, it's how it's done. "That's everywhere you are, little cocktease. What in the hell am I ever to do with you? Tosser."

Strained and snarky charm is all he manages to yank out of a scratchy gullet and Harry grins saucily at the croak of it, full of himself being himself—and a bloody right winner in the games they play constantly. Draco may be the more practiced of the two, but Harry's a quick study…and there's nothing like holding his own, really, in the face of extreme duress of finesse. Draco Malfoy, in his student's view, still constitutes a fine example of 'extreme duress', really, just of an entirely different sort than he used to, once. Yes, entirely.

"Fuck _me_." Draco, at an impasse and in lieu of a convenient bed, does the next obvious thing: he rends at Harry's untucked linen shirting and sends any number of buttons flying. Harry returns the favour by yanking Draco's denims three-quarters down his slim hips and helping himself to a double handful of bared cock, which springs out above the tooth of parted zipper. "Fuck **this**."

Harry doesn't reply; he's busy grunting and running all available digits all up and down Draco's tackle. Draco doesn't give any other spare fucks, leastways not verbally, as he's got a heaving chest to explore, all at his disposal. They wobble and sway and are vastly precarious, stomping each other's toes and not caring a whit.

The Mirror meanwhile reflects solely and only two men so focused upon each other, caught up in an outburst of what can only be termed 'spontaneous passion'. Fiendfyre itself—ruddy destructive and cruelly denying—wouldn't begin to impinge upon their collective consciousnesses at this point: they're oblivious to anything outside their rapidly shrinking little shared square of parquet hardwood tile.

Piggish grunting goes to breathy moans and little gasps—and then a raspy, wet silence. It's late afternoon and Harry's got stubble. Even Draco has stubble and his Shaving Charm is a centuries-old family secret. No matter: they rub cheek by jowls and frot as they can—and that brilliant idea of a handy flat soft surface only looms ever greater in the collective Potter-Malfoy world-view.

"Oh, god, oh god," one of the whimpers. "Gods, _now_, damn it!"

…And the delicate balance shifts once again—with the tickle of digits into skintight pantaloons, with the long lick Draco lays across Harry's newly exposed nipples. He yanks Harry's bum to rest much higher upon a raised knee and thrusts up with all his might as soon as he has his student settle hobbyhorse. He clearly wants in—in—_in_; mouth and fingertips, flexing arms and then the muffled throb of two Pyramus-and-Thisbe cocks duelling tell the tale for minutes on end. Harry's not immune to the Malfoy influence, after all.

"I think!" he gasps, some little while later, knees freshly wobbling as he slips boneless away, sagging on watery ankles.

"Mm'umph?"

"Oh…oh-oh-oh…." Gasping, as they've not left each other an ounce of real air to breathe. Driven half-mad and wild-eyes, as none of the friction induced has been quite sufficient, _sod it_. "Oh—_I_ th-think…"

"Yeah? Fuck, come here—where are you even _going_, Potter?"

And he's cast again (nay, yanked roughly) atop the rising ridge of Draco's thigh as if tossed there by some careless giant hand; the fingers flexing into his crack and cradling the hollow of hip bone are impossibly effective in their actions. They are so very hard where they grip, burning—so needy.

"Er!" Harry tries again. "Wait!" This is all very well but Lavender will slay him if he musses his first official costume any more than his handsy acting coach already has. "I think—I—I'm—finished here—Draco."

An eyebrow spears him nastily. "Really," Draco drawls flatly. "I see." He is at once highly offended and more than a little bruised, feelings-wise. He blames Potter for it, naturally. "Well. Thanks for letting me know _now_, Potter. Bit late in the game, isn't it?"

"No, um? I mean…could we? Er….might we—?" Harry means to add 'adjourn practise' and suggest they find somewhere a little less in the public eyes to shag, but Malfoy is already one step ahead.

"Oh, ho, ho, hah! _That's_ what you meant? Lovely." Draco chuckles, kicked back to feeling gleeful like a rocket. Really, it's as though cupping Harry's bum has given him a solid handhold on reality—that momentary lurch of terror was naught but an aberration, just now. No, he's got a firm grip on the present moment—no bed, no likelihood of one; ergo, frustration—but it's already sliding headily toward what they both visualize in their immediate future. Wizards, yes? Don't even have to bother slinking through the hallways to avoid the Malfoy parents, much less their fellow thespians. Thus he smirks between doling out a series of smaller kisses, but ever so pleasantly. he has a point to drive home, still.

"Oh, no, sorry. By no means, Harry, are we finished here," he taunts, rising straight and tall and giving Harry's bum a little jiggle across the iron-hard tautness of thew-and-sinew—and the rough pull of Muggle denim against wool so thin its more like spun silk. He sneers sweetly at his captive Potter, who wriggles in an agony of too-full bollocks.

"Wha—? **Hey**!"

"No, not nearly. We'll have to come back later and swot like mad things, if we dare break for a bit now—you do realize that, don't you? No rushing back to your dratted Ministry desk, Potty. We've a schedule to keep to or Lovegood will come along and have my hide for a Nargle net, and that I am _not_ having."

It's a hugely brilliant pleasure to watch Potter clue in.

"Yes—yes, okay, okay! I get it; I'll do it—I'll stay if I must, but fine. Fine! Then—then to yours, please," Harry replies instantly and insistently, digging into Draco's curving shoulder blades for dear life, as if burying pitons on an obdurate cliff face. "Or—or to mi-mine, I don't care! But _now_, before I fall the fuck over with the wanting of you—or—or simply burst!"

"Okay, that we can do, Harry." Happy as a lark, Draco nuzzles his way into the perspiring musky hollow 'neath jaw and earlobe. _Oh_—he _is _smiling! It's real and wide and flashy; it pulls the shape of his snog all out of whack and wonky-sided, not that he stops due to that detail. "That we can," he chuckles, liking the feeling inside him if for no good reason other than it's there shining all over his face to be seen and Harry's the one who's blessed him with it, this good thing. "Mine's ever so much closer. You ready?"

"More than."

Harry's dreamy-eyed, with leathery ankles twined and anchored on firmly, a sexy barnacle. Draco can't stuff back a little inarticulate noise of his triumphant satisfaction; he feels quite like crowing, as a cockerel does of a high summer morning. Booty call—check! It's a fine day; a fine, fine day, really, all 'round.

"Ye—!"

But it's cut in two by the beginnings of the all too familiar pop of Apparition and then they wink entirely out of view of any audience, this fashionable Bohemian twined about his so-_parfait_ Regency gentleman. It's only to Malfoy's chambers they retreat to, not far at all, but there's a bed there and beds are much preferable when available. Though, really, any old _where_ will do. And any old _when_…and the hard polished floor of the Peacock Room had been looking more and yet more inviting, not even a moment before.

The Peacock Room returns to its usual state of unoccupied. The mirror returns to reflecting only acres of ancient old wallpaper, flocked with the velveteen iconic peacocks' tails once more, in a quiet oasis all done up in purples, gilt and sapphires…and even the most striking sort of magicked wall covering still tells no tales and reveals no secrets, being tongueless. It may be residually sentient, like its greater fellows, the harp and the Mirror, but no one cares, really.

It's not what the _wallpaper_ muses upon which matters.


	14. S2, Act 2, Scene 7 'True Confessions'

**Stage II, Act 2, Scene 7. **The Leaky.

A gathering of Auror-types is clogging it up with their swirling scarlet cloaks and tromping muddy boots. It's Friday evening and the end of a long week and friends have gathered. On stage front and centre at a tiny high-top table are Ronald Weasley, Auror Second Class (but in line for a promotion shortly), and Harry Potter, Auror Adjunct, Special Class (permanently 'promoted', alas, alack). Harry's gaudy Order of Merlin is pinned to his uniform. His fingers play with the wide ribbon nervously; every now and again he casts a scornful look of extreme disgust upon the hapless bit of metal and cloth dangling from his pristinely pressed vermillion chest. Whenever Ron, his best mate, notices it, he quickly changes the subject to something lighter; it's clear these two have been chatting and quaffing for a fair hour already. Ron's uniform, in contrast to his friend's, is decidedly more used and abused in appearance. He has his fair share of the copious half-dried mud the other Aurors shed on Tom's floor like heedless beagles, fresh from the hunt. Clearly, Weasley is a man who's been toiling hard all the day long and is pleased with it: he's scuffed about the boots and his shirt's smudged black-and-oily, as is one high-cut freckled cheekbone. His hair—oddly similar to Harry's natural do—is ruffled every which way from hands swept through it and wind shear endured, and he's weary, but also in a very excellently good mood. Harry, on the opposing hand, is obviously broody. No, Harry may be outright pouting, with a side dollop of glum 'sullen'.

He requires, or so the hesitant expression on Weasley's face proclaims to any who might approach, a touch of special handling. Accordingly, their other mates in the corps stay well clear. One is not an Auror in the new era and insensitive; the Minister insists.

As the residual spots dim and glow into an air of ambience, the audience's attention is drawn to these two figures:

"So anyway, Harry, what's that prat Malfoy been teaching you?" Weasley is light and airy about it, and crunching at a shelled bar nut. He licks his lips, after. "You never said."

"Hmm? Oh—elocution, mainly." Harry shrugs and flicks at scattered shells with an errant fingertip. "Draco says I've the diction but not the projection."

"Does he now?" Ron sips his pint. "Well, he should know, yeah? Hermione told me the Malfoys are 'highly cultural.' Like that's a good thing." He mimics his beloved's tones exactly; Harry stifles a laugh. "Being all 'cultural'. 'Course we're cultural—we all live face down in it, don't we? S'everbody's _cultural_. Stands to reason."

"Um, well...Very la-di-da, yes, maybe a little more so than you or me, mate," Harry agrees dubiously. "He is, can't deny it. But not too, too awful."

"Really?"

"Yes, he's...well, whatever." Harry humps a shoulder. "He's him. Yeah, so, it's mainly lessons on how to make my voice carry out beyond the footlights without using too much obvious Sonorus. Says one loses the dramatic inflection if you rely on incantations too heavily—and also my carriage. My posture's poor, he says." Harry snorts. "Tells me I need stretching, actually. The prat."

"Carriage? Like, er, Thestrals, um...attached to?" Ron's puzzled, and one ginger eyebrow states it. "Funny thing to say to you, that."

"Um, no," Harry shakes his head. "Carriage: it's more like how I present? My stance, as in where I stick my feet and hands and what I do with them, after. Um, gestures and so on—'business', he calls it. The action that's supposed to make me look like who it is I'm playing. But then, keeping the old spine straight and not slouching unless I ought because my _character_ slouches, and even then…oh! Like that." Harry jerks his pint glass, frowning when Ron makes a puzzled face at him. "Look, don't worry about it. It's a bit odd but it makes sense, how Draco puts it. Gotta look good when I'm up there, clowning about."

"Right, right," Ron grins, chuckling. "Whatever you say, mate. Oi, but Harry. Something tells me you're not taking this play business all that seriously. Hermione won't be pleased with you. She's very keen on it."

"Hmph!" Harry scowls at his beer's placid surface, blowing on it with pursed lips and short bursts of breath to scare up some foam. "Well, how can I?" he demands, throwing a careless hand out to indicate the other Aurors. "It's not my _job_, is it? My real one. I mean, look at them, Ron! They're all happily going about doing what we were all trained to be doing and I'm stuck away in the bowels of the Ministry, rotting my arse off and making appearances. Kingsley won't let me lift a bloody finger, much less my wand! And then when I drop by the Manor to do my bit there, it's all 'Harry, extend your arm just here when you monologue' or 'Potter, do enunciate that word in particular' or 'oh, hey, Harry, mind giving me a hand with this bit or that bit of scenery, toting it about?'"

Weasley giggles. "Really?"

"Really!" Harry snaps his teeth. "And 'Oh, but don't strain yourself, ducks!' when the girls catch me—and they always seem to catch me! Like I'm a glorified dogsbody, you know? It's as though the only real thing I've left to actually do is this bloody play-acting and then _that's_ not real at all, is it? Not meant to be, even. It's a drag, Ron. Seriously a drag."

Weasley settles into his seat, contemplating his pal's unhappy expression.

"What's the drag part, though? I mean, I know the Ministry's got your goat a bit and has for ages, and then Shacklebolt's not helping at all, but I thought you liked all this acting gig?" Ron lounges, but intently, eyeing Harry very carefully. "You seemed all right with it, back when the girls brought you in. Hermione _said_."

"Heh, Hermione is it?" Harry shrugs his discontent, with a moue of upper lip that screams of ennui, unrelenting. "Oh, it's not that I _don't_. It's a bit fun and Draco's been pretty brilliant; I do like all the stuff I've been learning, you know, but. It's just…it's just. Huh."

"Yeah, mate?"

"I'm sort of torn, you know? This—here?" He gestures again to the Aurors, humming with laughter and office gossip. "Has fuck-all to do with that. It's too...too separate, the two of them. Too far apart. Poles distant, even. It's, er, confusing."

"Yeah?"

"I don't know what's wanted of me, Ron, not this time. It's as if I'm supposed to be two totally different people, two Harry Potters. I'm always arse over tea kettle any more. Gives me the headache."

"Huh." Ron twitches his eyebrows, clearly unconvinced. "I'd've thought you'd be accustomed to it. Isn't it just the same as Hogwarts all over again, really? Think it over. Here's you, running around to classes, taking exams and revising, being your basic scrubby schoolboy and then all the while it's like you're some super-special avenger for justice, too. One of those Muggle comics heros; there's even a bloody prophecy! But no one realizes it, not till it's almost too late, and they treat you like shite on a biscuit all that time and you've only your best mates to support you, right? Like that Bat fellow, what's it...er, Robert? Bruce? Robert Bruce?"

"Hmm." Harry twitches and the sour twist to his lips inches upwards, just slightly. He seems intrigued. "Oh...kay. Go on, yeah?"

"So you have to act like a regular student—pretend, yeah?" Weasley sketches the whole action of his scenario in the air, flapping his arms and waving an imaginary cloak as Harry watches, bemused. "Like that, right? All that time, all those years, You should be used to it, I'd reckon. Nothing new there being undercover, Harry."

"But I'm not—that's the thing." Harry slews his chin about, propping it on a fist and takes a meditative sip. "I'm really not, Ron. I mean, yes—it was a sort of act, back then, 'specially as we went on. Eventually. I acted a lot at Hogwarts, I mean, after I sorted it I had to, if I wanted to survive...if I wanted any of us to make it through. Kind of was forced, you know? If I wanted to fit in and all, too. Remember how everyone hated me, that one year? Thought I was gone begging for the attention, hah! Bloody Draco! But no, no. I didn't do it for the joy of it, any of it. I did it because I _was_ forced, you know that, right? And here Draco wants me to enjoy all of it, this thing on stage—to love it. As if I'm real up there, in the lights. He thinks it'll make me feel better, he says, to throw it back in their faces, make them _see_. Like it's a subsitute, playing pantos and aping mad old kings." Harry scoffs at the idea, and drinks deep suddenly, tilting his head all the way back as he polishes off his pint. "Me? Panacea, Ron. That's it. It's a stop-gap, something Looney and the rest of them dreamt up to keep me sane. But not...not something I can sink my teeth into. Not like what I _wanted_."

"And? So? You don't think you can? That it?" Ron's face has taken on that one particular Look while Harry's talking: the classic 'I'm worried over Harry' look he'd worn so often in the later years of their schooling —and Harry grimaces fondly at him and then grins, ruefully. He wipes the scant foam from his nose. "You're not scared, Harry...are you? The acting itself? Is it—"

"A bit, yeah. It's more...It's more I don't think I want to, see?" he murmurs. "What I can really do, if I do. Or actually, I _want_ to do one thing or t'other, but not both. I'm sick as shit of being split right down the middle, eh? Get that, mate—what I'm saying? It's driving me round the twist, this. I want to Auror _or _I want to act. But not both. Not. Both."

"Mmm," Ron shrugs his understanding and knocks back the remainder of brown liquid in his glass to be companionable. "Well." He twitches his wand out of its holster and waves the tip at the table, where another brace of pints sparkle into cold, crisp existence. Tom, from his station at the bar, looks up instantly and peers at them, before nodding. A parchment tab appears briefly in the air above his head, an illusionary quill jotting upon it. "I dunno, but. Want another? Oh, ah! Too late, mate; 'course you do. Night's young and I've already got you covered. You ask me, you need it, so drink up."

"Oh. Hmm, sure, why not?" Harry sighs, reaching out to heft one of the mugs. "It's not like I'm doing much, after. May as well. Thanks, Ron."

He sighs heavily, and a bit theatrically, and slumps into his drink, which only serves to intensify his best mate's verging-on-quite anxious expression.

"Come to supper, then," Ron suggests hurriedly. "Come home to ours. We can stretch it, I'm sure—and Hermione will happy to see you. Do you good, Harry."

"Mmm, no," Harry slumps dispiritedly, his chin nearly dunked into his pint. "No, sorry, mate, but I can't. If I wanted to eat out I could Floo over to Draco's. He Owled me earlier…but I think I'd rather just go home. Yeah..."

"Yeah? But home's pretty awful, Harry—still," Ron makes a face of distaste. "S'not..._home_, what? Not like ours, or Mum's and Dad's. I mean, I know you've done what you can and Mum's been 'round and all to tidy, but it's still pretty bloody grim, your rotten oold Grimmauld. Lives up to its name, that house."

"Yes!" A dark chuckle greets that and Harry toasts Weasley in acknowledgement. "Fair point. But it's mine, Ron. My house—my home." Harry sends him a rueful glance. "I mean, I can go there when I want to get away from it all. At least there's that."

"Your man-cave, you mean," Ron chortles suddenly, obviously struck by something that amuses him. "Hermione told me about those; says we need to have a garage for me added on, for the weekends. Don't know about that, so much, not a fiddly type, me, but don't think I don't know about your recent additions to the old Library, Harry! And all those videos you've bought! And that telly! That's one helluva load of porn you've carted in to watch on it, too. Dear old Auntie Walburga would have fucking fits if she knew what you've been getting up to, you wanker."

"Ron!" Harry laughs in return—first real one of the evening, or possibly all day. "It's only porn. Everyone needs a little porn, yeah? Especially me, as I'm still a singleton—got no one to hide it from, what? What's it matter, what I get off to?"

"Still and all, mate," Ron grumbles, wagging ginger brows at his friend. "You know you'd catch hell if Hermione raids your shelves any time soon. She does like to pop by and check up on you. Better watch out!"

"Oh, she won't, least I don't bet on it. Too busy with the play and the Troupe. And her work and the baby."

"Ain't that the truth," Weasley sighs. "Bother, it is. She needs to take a damper sometimes, my girl. Too much, you know? I can't keep up."

"S'truth."

"Still, she'll not like you only watching a steady diet of wank-off material, Harry. You'll be wanting a little culture in with that. Likely your Malfoy be pleased with you, too."

Harry snorts, flapping a hand. "Hah! You know, sometimes you're so fucking Muggle, mate. Constipated in the head, just like them. What's Hermione been exposing you to recently, anyway?"

"Oh, ah—East Enders," Ron replies very seriously, nodding. "And um, Upstairs Downstairs. And Fawlty Towers. That Doctor Who show, too."

Harry nods. "Well, they're none of them too, too awful. Could be worse, I guess."

Ron's face splits into a wide white grin. "Yeah, well, she's all about the culture. But I like Benny Hill the best, actually. That shit's actually hilarious, though I never to quite catch all the really funny bits. You know? Your Muggles speak a different damned language."

"No, they don't, arse!"

Harry laughs again, almost against his will. He sticks a hand to his forehead, rubbing it. A tension headache is blooming beneath the scarred skin and he's tiring quickly, shoulders drooping below their ornate epulets.

"You and Dudders, both, Ron—fucking soul mates. Well, not the Upstairs, Downstairs bit, so much. Dud's a fan of MasterChef, poor sod. But, that's new, at least for you, all that hoity-toity upper crust rubbish. Must be Hermione's influence, that. Can't see you getting into it, really. Too plebeian. Like Dudders is. Can just see you, gagging your arse off laughing over Benny."

"Prick!" Ron protests, bridling, but in fun. "Benny's a blast and you know it...if you ever took your hand off your dick, mate. Besides." He cracks a grin. "So _not_ nice of you, comparing me to that fat git. Bite your tongue!"

"Heh." Harry bangs his hand on the table for emphasis. "It's not like you don't deserve it, sometimes, come over all domestic on me. Likely you two blokes would rub along like houses afire…_if _you got to know one another, that is. Besides, he's not so bad now Uncle Vernon's passed on. Almost human, now and again. For a bigoted sot, he's bloody progressive anymore. Says he doesn't mind Wizards and could I teach him some? What a laugh! As if!"

"Mmm." Ron nods gently, filling his mouth with beer. "Yes...well." There's no pursuing the subject of Dudley, not with his mate, even if his mate is the one who mentions it. He knows not to speak of Harry's family even if Harry himself does; it's not on. It only upsets his friend and Ron can see he's a bit on the very thin edge, tonight.

Harry grunts. Drinks and falls into a tiny silence.

"Er, Harry?" There's a little pause before Ron fills it, tentatively jogging Harry with a friendly elbow to the ribs. Maybe a bit of distraction might serve; he can always hope so. And Malfoy's always good for a rise from Harry. Ron squares his shoulders subtly and opens it up: "So, erm…how _is_ it really, spending all that quality time with old Malfoy? Is he treating you alright? Not too hoity-toity, I hope?"

"No…" Harry half-grunts, half-sighs. "He's not bad, really. Nice to look at, too."

"Oh!" Ron shrugs casually. As if this were nothing...which it might very well be. "Yeah."

"And he's been really civil to me—almost friendly. No..more than friendly. It's weird."

"Yeah?"

"But don't get me wrong—I mean, I'm appreciative. He's done a lot for the rest of us, letting us use the Manor and keeping his dad out of the way and all. And he knows so much, Ron. So much history, so much trivia. All that shit I missed, growing up Muggle. It's like Binns but without the insane amount of boredom added in, right? I mean, I_ learn_ things, you know? Stuff I never had a chance to learn before."

"Mmm," Ron nods again, watching carefully. "That's, um." The incipient lines have smoothed away from Harry's brow; he's much more at ease. "Good, yeah. Good on him, right?"

Harry's fast to nod and smile. "And he's not tried on anything with me. We're not fighting like we were. In fact—in fact." Harry comes to a full stop, his lips pursed. "It's..."

"Mate?"

"It's almost as if he's attracted, actually—to _me_…which is, well," Harry sucks in a startled breath. "Um, I hadn't really thought, but yeah—yeah, it's exactly like that. Like he's been trying to pull me. Like he wants to."

"Oh?" Ron's eyebrows have all but disappeared. "Hey." But his voice is only mildly curious. Harry seldom speaks of his own romantic prospects, mainly because the shy little git doesn't believe he has any. He's dated, certainly, and Harry's no virgin, but no one's seen much past poor Harry's celebrity name. And the ones who do are all too familiar; old hat and generally old mates, too. Ron and Hermione don't like it, but...well, what can they really do? And Gin's not been in the picture for ages now, 'cept as a mate. "Hmm, go on, then. What's he done?"

"Er?" Harry blushes suddenly; he ducks his chin into his glass again. "Erm, it's more like what _I_ did—but then, he kept it going. Till the end."

"Kept what going, mate?" Ron coaxes, and carefully. Hermione's going to be intensely pleased to learn of this, he knows. And he's spent some time with Malfoy himself lately, mainly because of his wife's hobby. Bloke's not so bad, not any more, even if he's a Malfoy. Dragon's will do that to a man, give him a real sense of perspective; Charlie can attest. His father's another story of course, but that's not important now. What's on is old Harry. "What?"

"Brought each off, just the other day," Harry confesses, mumbling, the flush subsiding. "Yeah, sorry." He says when Ron's eyebrows climb abruptly. He shakes his shaggy head slightly. "I mean, it was nothing much, just some mutual relief, but, hey. I, uh, thought it was pretty hot. I mean...it was good. _He_ is, at least—oh, I guess you should kill me for saying that, yeah?"

Harry blushes, and his face matches his uniform, completely. But Weasley's not a chess player for nothing.

"Why would I, Harry? He's alright, enough." Ron's very carefully choosing his words and his tone now. "Handsome and all. Rich, like." He wants to do nothing that would startle his mate into retreating. Harry's got enough going on without him thinking erroneously that his two best friends don't approve of his fuck buddies. Which apparently Malfoy is, now—and that was logical, really. Very probable, even. Ron spares a quick second to calculating. Wondering just how deep to dig. "So, er…you seeing him, outside of Troupe?"

"Um," Harry's restless. "Seeing him? You mean, um, dating? I hadn't really thought—I mean, it's a little difficult. Don't think Lucius would approve, do you? Of me."

"Come _on_, Harry," Ron flips his fingers, snapping them at the very idea of Lucius Malfoy. Bogeyman he might be, but really more of a nuisance factor, these days. "Your Malfoy's a grown man now. Can do whatever—with whomever. You should…ah." He pauses, not wanting to delve too deep, because that would be as bad as brushing it off. Harry can handle his own affairs—he always had, when it came down to it. "You should." He'd not appreciate Ron's well-meaning interference. "Um, maybe bring him along to the Burrow on a Sunday? Mum'll like that. Could do this one, even. Loads of room, with Bill and Charlie gone off."

"Hmmm, you think?" Harry taps his chin with a thoughtful forefinger. He blinks, long and slow, staring off into nothing much in particular. "I mean, I could—if he'd consent to come."

"What?" Ron lifts his hands in silent appeal. "Hermione and Ginny have them all talking again. Feud's over, Harry. Really. So, um, carry him along to supper, yeah? Mum likes 'em handsome, you know. She'll be fine with it."

"Er…well," Harry deliberates. "S'pose I could ask him."

"Can only say no," Ron shrugs. "Where's the harm?"

"Hmmm." Harry's not committing one way or another but Ron knows that gleam in those green eyes of Harry's. He's been challenged, in a low-level way, and Harry never backs down from a challenge. "We'll see. If I think about it when I see him next, I might ask him. Maybe."

Ron's careful to hide the giveaway twitch of his lips. He's not the only downy one at this table and Harry's a lot more perceptive than he comes across. Wouldn't do to show that he was actually _pleased_.

Oh, and he'd better warn Hermione to cool it, too. Last thing Harry needed in his fragile new wanking relationship with the blond berk was a well-meaning female, bent on tidying everyone up.

"Hey, whatever," he passes it off with shrug. "One more before we take off, then? I could stand it—it's been a day, yeah?"

"Mine, I think." Harry smiles. He's been handed a tonic, whether he knows it or not. Nothing like thinking someone likes you—especially a fit git like Malfoy, Ron smirks inwardly, to do your flagging ego a world of good.

"Sure, but just one," Harry replies, glancing over to Tom, hovering at the bar. "There we go." Tom nods and there are two more pints before them, nice and icy cold. "Gotta eat still...and I think I'll pass on the invite to yours, Ron. Fancying Thai tonight, yeah? Carry away for me. And Hermione's cooking, isnt she?"

"Ta, Harry." Ron nods hastily. "Oh, yeah," he says, looking terribly interested in the idea of Thai carry away—until his face falls abruptly. "No, _shit_. We've bangers and mash again. Instant, I think. Oh, joy."

He earns a pat for that, right on the back. Hermione may be brilliant at Potions but she is no gourmet cook and Ron's learnt that over the course of his six-month marriage. Fortunately, it seems he's inherited his Mum's cooking genes, which is all well and good, but tonight it's his wife's turn—and that means instant _everything_.

Oh, well. Can't win 'em all. Only join 'em, sometimes.

"S'all right," Harry pats him again. "Can't be worse than frozen Muggle pizza, can it? It'll do, Ron—it'll do. Belt up."


	15. Stage 3, Act 3, Scene 1 'Rhinoceros'

**A Note in the Playbill: **_There will be scheduled a twenty minute Intermission at this time, as Act 2 was exceedingly long and Act 3 promises no better. Refreshments are available in the Lounge. Please remember to tip your friendly crew or cast member, as they will be serving you! Also, the Troupe is currently accepting donations, for future productions. Please—be an 'Angel'! _

* * *

><p><strong>Stage III:<strong>_ Rhinoceros Rhinoceros_

**Act 3, Scene 1. **Malfoy Manor. Another anteroom work area, situated off the Ballroom.

A cozy gathering of leather chairs and small tables marks this pleasant coffee-au-lait tinted room as a manly retreat of ages past. It's very masculine indeed, boasting an ornately carven ebony-and-glass humidor and a lovely tiled hearth done up in scenes from the Hunt of Herne; paintings of various magical creatures at bay or on the run decorate the walls. But there is nothing as uncivil as actual blood, so one is left with the impression of good sportsmanship in motion, and the beehive hum of tiny hounds and wee red-jacketed pursuers, galloping madly and toodling their horns. The wall paper is dark, and the panelling darker. It's not sombre, precisely, but with the overabundance of hunter green and maroon, it could be on a stormy day. French doors lead out onto the ever-encircling marble terrace that girths this wing of the Manor, allowing filtered light through the misty gauze of the curtains.

Harry and his tutor have used this particular room to rehearse often enough that neither heed the soothing murmurs. It is merely a haven of quietude just outside the bustle of the main ballroom, where Lavender Brown and her various minions and associates are hard at work, creating.

* * *

><p>"Right, Harry. Stop fucking off, please. Sing."<p>

"What? No!"

Harry retreated strategically, ducking behind a divan. He was _not _singing—not aloud, not before Draco and not a highly complicated musical speech he'd barely wrapped his head around—no!

…Specially _not_Freddy. He much preferred Strephon, but "Harry." Draco had said no one would twig. Besides, he was under strict orders to abstain from Dark irony when being tutored in Light opera…

Still…such a wonderful turn of phrase, that:

_In verity I wield a pow'r sublime,  
>And one that I can turn to mighty uses!<br>What joy to carry, in the very teeth  
>Of ministry, cross-bench and opposition,<br>Some rather urgent measures quite beneath  
>The ken of Patriot and Politician!<em>

Fold your flapping wings,  
>Soaring legislature!<br>Stoop to little things,  
>Stoop to human nature!<br>Never need to roam,  
>Members patriotic,<br>Let's begin at home  
>Crime is no exotic!<br>Bitter is your bane  
>Terrible your trials,<br>Dingy Drury Lane!  
>Soapless Seven Dials!<p>

"Harry." Draco rolls a bare ankle and Looks at him, his grey eyes preternaturally wide. Harry jumps in place, startled, but Draco only flaps a hand and rustles his _Prophet_. "Harry, you _knew_ you were supposed to do this. You were bloody well warned I expected it. Don't weasel out on me now, Mr Auror. _Sing_."

Oh, no! Harry shakes his head, mouthing a silent but vastly sincere negation. _Oh, no_. Not now—not tomorrow—not ever!

"Harry."

Wordlessly, Harry shakes his head. Very slowly, back and forth. Over and over, as Draco's eyelids lower dangerously and his grey gaze sparks to ready anger.

"You just won't do it? Is that it? No excuse to hand me—not even a 'sorry'?"

"No—no, I won't, Draco," Harry replies, blinking and slightly dizzy from all the head-shaking, brain-sloshing activity. He settles his feet firmly on the floor and clutches at the back of the sofa, assuming a staunch defense in the face of a determined Malfoy. Determined Malfoys are dangerous people; he knows this very well. "I've said I wouldn't before, when you first brought it up, and nothing's changed my mind since. Nothing will. I am_ not_ singing and I am _not_playing what's his name, Freddy Whosis either, and no power on earth will force me!"

"Tsk!" Draco rises to his slim feet and glares. The newspaper he grips is cast aside with a grand flourish.

"What?" Harry shrugs. "Just no, Draco. No."

"Pfft! And your bloody mates ever had the gall to call _me_ coward!" his mentor snorts. The flash of anger has settled into plain disgruntlement, and a sneer. "Huh! I'm nothing on _you_, brat. I mean,_ really_, Harry—_everyone_sings, if only in the shower." Harry returns to shaking his head, though it is causing the room to tilt in a very sick-making manner. "Think about it," Draco begs. "I do it, for Merlin's sake. You've heard me often enough; never bothered you before."

"Uh-uh. No." Harry sweeps his chin back-and-forth again, like a charmed serpent, his lips set thin and unyielding, even though Draco in wheedling mode is a rather rare and precious event and he always really enjoys it when it happens. "No, Draco, and don't ask me again. This isn't something I'm planning to cave on, not even to please you."

"Bah! Fine!" Harry's acting maven shrugs, almost philosophically, his broad shoulders wrinkling the pale cream linen of his untucked button-down as they shift. "Right," he says, spinning neatly on a naked heel and making for the door. "You claim you won't be convinced; alright, I get that, blockhead. But…come on, then. I need to show you something."

"Er...what? Why?"

"You can make use of those damned eyes of yours, cowardly lion, and mayhap your ears."

Blinking, Harry follows. Cautiously, as he rather expects a bit more of a blow-up on Draco's part. This is suspicious, highly so. Draco is still just as dead-set on going about things his way as he ever was, it's just that he and Harry are managing not to fight over any of it. Er, much. They've not completely changed out their spots for stripes yet, cheers.

"Um?"

Actually, Draco has toned his absolute 'gang-way, no holds barred' attitude way, way down when dealing with Harry. And Harry? Oh, he's grumbled his fair share over this whole thing—the endless memorization, the feeling of being the cynosure of all eyes (even if it was only Draco's eyes so far), the pressure of learning the art of performance—but on the whole it hasn't been too awful. He could even, on a good day, say he honestly liked it—the acting.

"You're, um, not ticked off? At me?"

He's right on Draco's heels. A good thing, that, because the man is in process of leading him a desperately circuitous path through the Manor. First down and then up. Back and then forth, and through doors and out of them again. And then painstakingly sideways, on a very peculiar stairwell that they are both forced to cling to as they go.

Harry is just recently caught up on the wonder that is _Alice, Through the Looking Glass_, courtesy Hermione's nagging, and really, he wouldn't be at all surprised if his fellow Wizard grew a tail and whiskers.

"Mmm." Draco doesn't reply, only sniffs dramatically and shoos Harry forward through a door that hadn't existed a blink before. Harry blinks a few more times as he trots on, rapidly enough to tangle up the tips of his own eyelashes, and admits to feeling vaguely curious as to why it was Malfoy has to take him through what seems like all the labyrinthine maze that was the Manor proper. They've stuck to the South Wing mostly, he and his friends.

"Hey?"

…Well, no, all right. He's been popped off to Draco's suite often enough, true enough, and for all good purposes. That's to be found in the East Wing, which Draco inhabits all by his handsome sexy lonesome, a bachelor pad planted right in the midst of all his massive, ornately decorated, manorial home. Dirty laundry and all, even. Socks on the floor, from when he dons them, which is seldom enough. Harry's grown a bit fond of that mess. It's a little of what makes Draco Malfoy a much more approachable chap, these days.

"So, er…where is it exactly we're going?"

"Hmm. You'll see soon enough." Draco shrugs a shoulder, busy waving his wand at a monstrous pipe organ the Malfoys have sitting about, mysteriously taking up what looked to be nearly an entire small Floo parlour.

"Ahem. I don't what all this is in aide of, but? Like I said?" Harry feels that he needs to stick to topic, especially as Draco appears to be most deliberately distracting him from it. He knows the man's a Slytherin git and very canny, but he can still stick to his guns despite it, he believes. "Before, and just now. I meant that." He strongly believes. And constant repetition of his objection might prove effective, for once. One never knew, really, with Malfoy. "No, really, Draco—I've never once sung. I can't do it, so don't ask me. I can't carry a tune, even, by hand. Not in a bloody bucket, not on a plank. I'm...I'm _un_-melodious!"

"Uh-huh," Draco nods and shrugs a shoulder Harry's way, but he's clearly more intent on glancing about him, searching for something. "All right."

After all that long weird walk, they've fetched up before the Malfoy's huge Library oddly enough, by way of a route Harry has certainly never taken previously, and are stood halted just before the giant double doors he very vaguely recalls from the first, fast tour Draco had given him, months ago. But instead of entering immediately, Draco is occupied with pressing at various wooden scrolls and rosettes decorating the smooth archway frame.

"So...?" Harry adds winningly, ignoring their surroundings and batting his lashes like a mad thing. "Er...no, okay?" He knows Malfoy's not immune to his own peculiar version of wheedling, awkward as it is.

"What_ever_, Harry. Shut up for a sec, okay? Busy here."

"Um, right, sure," Harry shrugs back, still uncertain if Draco is actually irritated with his obstinacy...or if this sudden trip would only end up depositing him in the dungeons for a spot of ad hoc torture, solely for being a non-cooperative, unmusically inclined, philistine sod. Again, it was up for grabs, the outcome. Because Draco's eyes had flashed red murder when Harry first refused and Harry knows very well what sort of tempestuous temper his coach has tucked away under that smooth, cool exterior. Never tread on a Snake if one can help it, yeah? "Er, yes, um. Shutting up."

"Thank you."

There's a long hushed moment, during which Draco spends crawling all over the doorframe with his nimble fingers, tapping out a random tattoo, and Harry spends watching him stretch and bend, and vastly appreciating the man's arse as it flexes. Certain things in his life are certainly 'finer' than they were before, that's for damned sure.

"There!" Draco hisses happily when the many locks and bolts upon the twinned doors at last resound with a tiny, ringing 'clunkity-clink-bong!'—and a previously hidden entrance swings wide open before them, smack dead in the middle of one wood panel. It's a smaller door, within the larger ones, and one would never know it unless one saw with one's own eyes. One would have to crouch and duck to enter, unless one were an elf. Harry grins; the ways of old Wizarding folk are passing strange and pretty highly amusing, sometimes. "Right. In you go, Harry—and watch your step! There's a bit of a drop-off—"

Harry turns his chin, glancing back over his shoulder at his gesturing host. "Ah, really—_**ahhhhhahhhhh**_!? Shit! Shit, shit—_jeez_, Draco!"

With a calamatious thump that sounds far worse than it is, really, he lands upon a soft surface, bounces once on his surprised arse, and then bounds off, as if ejected from a trampoline. Only to arrive flat upon his feet in much the manner as a tumbler at the circus—or a Muggle acrobat, coming off the highest horse Olympic-style. He gains the impression of vastness and catches a passing gleam of polished wood, shiny metal and a million, zillion racks and shelves, all filled to overflowing.

"At first, I mean to say," Draco grins mischievously at him, bumping near shoulders. "Sorry 'bout that," he adds kindly, when Harry glares at him, making much of dusting off his robes and rubbing his bum.

"Merlin!" he whines, indignant but not really. "I swear, you really are out to murder me, aren't you? Warn me next time, will you?"

"I did." Draco straightens himself as well: an elegant sweep of long hands restore a large part of his casual elegance. "Potty." He, too, looks a bit tumbled about yet, but it is a good look on him. His glorious hair is askew and tufted up and bits are tangled across his high forehead. His thin, finely tailored shirt has ridden up on a flat creamy-smooth belly.

"Ummmm," Harry says slowly, looking over the view of Malfoy with serious appreciation. "Erm. No." _He_ shakes his head again, but this time at his own fancy, refusing to be distracted, not by sudden falls nor the hint of slim hips jutting out or by anything extraneous, really. He _is_a man with a mission and that is to continue telling Draco Malfoy 'no', 'no', and again 'no' regarding this crazy-barmy singing idea. As it is not going to happen, cheers. "Right, moving on? Where are we, exactly? Where've you brought me to, Draco?"

"Why, here." Draco abruptly grabs Harry's elbow, turning casts a long arm out in a generous sweep.

"Where's here?"

"Look," is all he says, and Harry does, finally…blinking as his jaw drops down and down. Oh, mercy, he does look. It is...it is amazing, what he sees.

"See, Harry?"

He is standing at the entrance to every single musical shop in the world, Wizarding and Muggle, all crammed into a space that visually expands, even as he stares at it unfurling, boggling the eye and the flailing brain behind it. And it is full to overflowing, as if Terpsichore had taken up residence. No, as if she'd built a palace and hauled in a band!

Harpsichords, baby grands, guitar picks floating; psychedelic posters from the free-loving Sixties, drum kits and bongos, lutes, lyres and mandolins, and then a plethora of _music_—bloody music on a grand scale, in every media save 'live, in concert', and music of every sort, from Wagnerian opera to Daft Punk. Music!

"Ah?" He blinks again, staring 'round at the shelves and shelves of bound and loose sheet music, the albums, CDs, Muggle video tapes and recordings. The cassette machine, the antique Victor phonograph and the gleaming modernesque turntable—and all the many instruments artfully on display, and there were more of those than he could count or even begin to identify. The leather chairs hustled up next to all manner of Muggle sound machines, each equipped with professional-style headphones and a plethora of wires and knobs, all set for listening, for appreciating; the sound booths, culled right from some poor Muggle recording studio. It's a feast, really, for the ear, and only waiting to happen. And Harry has never been dully unobservant of music as a 'thing', he simply hasn't had a moment to spare for it.

"Ah?" He gapes and outright gawps, overwhelmed. "Gah?"

At his side, Draco smiles and executes a sketchy little bow. "Welcome to the most nefarious secret of all, Harry: my parents' Musical Collection. Even V-Voldemort at his very worst couldn't pry the existence of_ this_ out of my father. Or your bloody Aurors, more fool them. It is _our_secret, and perhaps our very best one, the one we Malfoys all love."

"What?" Harry is amazed. "**Whaaat**?" Who knew the Malfoy's elder enjoyed listening to the Sound of Music? Who could possibly guess they were devotees of Gilbert and Sullivan? Billy Ocean? _Duran Duran_?

…Or, is that also Sarah Brightman—another Muggle singer? And then the Weird Sisters, for that matter? Weird _Al_? The...the Scisscor Sisters, too? And—is that the Muggle group Queen—and David Bowie? What else did he spy, in all their strangely distant familiarity?

The—the Rolling Stones? UB-40? _Styx_?

"Oh!" Draco instantly notices where Harry's wide open gaze has landed. "Those are mine, over there. My parents tend to appreciate the more, er—classical sort of thing. But...what d'you think of it, Harry? Impressive, isn't it?"

"Erm, yeah," Harry breathes, craning his neck to take in the extent of the shelving, every one jam-packed with musical recordings of all sorts—Muggle and wizard. "Yes!" And whatever else. Because he doesn't know, really. The Dursleys had never cared for music as such and Hogwarts had skipped right over it altogether. Mostly...he thinks. He hadn't actually even _noticed_. "Yes, I think I can safely say it is impressive, Draco. Gods, yes."

Draco folds his arms in front of his chest, smiling about him proudly. "Well," he says smugly, "_we _think so."

"I, uh," Harry remarks, after another full moment of amazed blinking, "I'm afraid I don't follow? Quite. Why'd you bring me here, of all places? You're not being all Slytherin at me again, are you? Is there some hidden—"

"Harry." Draco steps up right next to him, turning in and gripping his upper arms in a comfy, cozy fashion, and leans down close. He nudges his nose into Harry's ear and murmurs; Harry instinctively closes his eyes. "It's simple, nitwit. Everybody sings, alright? You can't help but do so—it's how we humans express what's inside us, Harry—music. Emotion, alright? Basic human emotion: sadness, joy, triumph—anguish—jealousy. Good humour, too—and attraction, Harry."

"Uh...huh?" Harry nods uneasily, a bit confused but willing enough to play along. Lips play across the scalloped rim of his one ear. Christ, but that voice! "Go _on_."

"Mm." Draco pulls away, finally, but keeps an arm draped about Harry's shoulders. He flaps a wrist the Malfoy Collection. "And plays and such are built around music, essentially. You can't ignore its existence, Harry. It's always there, whether anyone sings or doesn't. It's the background to our lives, essentially, but especially for us Wizards and especially in the theatre, Wizarding or no. Sets the mood, creates a feeing in an audience. So, this," he nods to the very much hidden room, the one that no one but the Malfoys—and now one Harry Potter—is privy to, "is to simply _show_you. And to give you a safe place to try it out. The singing. Because you will sing for me, Harry. You've a lovely voice."

"Try-try it out?" Harry falters. "What, singing aloud, just like that? _Here_? Oh, no, no, Malfoy—you can't make me!"

"Au contraire, I am not forcing you, Harry," Draco slides his hands so that Harry is propelled closely against him; he even goes as far as petting Harry's back in a sort of soothing manner, rubbing at the knot of tension Harry didn't even know he had. "I'm inviting you. I am, ever so simply, allowing you the chance to dip your toes in. Try it out—because you can't convince me you've never sung before, Harry Potter, or that you never will. It's unnatural."

"Excuse me?" Harry is affronted. Really. He might've have whistled, perhaps, or maybe hummed, here and there. Perhaps he's even sung 'Weasley Is Our King' once upon a very long time ago, but he certainly isn't admitting that to Draco Malfoy, composer. No more than he'll ever admit it to Ron, his mate, that the song had been really catchy and it had stuck in his brain for ages, enticing him to sing it. "I don't bloody well think so, Draco! It's...it's ridiculous of you to even ask!"

…Alright, there's been Good King Wenceslas a few times, when Wizarding carollers have appeared at his door, now the old incantations has been removed to hide it. And George had dared him once to belt out a few choruses of Norwegian Wood that one time, when they'd been drinking, late at night. But—but!

"I don't sing. I can't sing." Harry clears his throat ominously. "I _shan't_sing."

"Harry, please listen." Draco brings his expressive eyebrows together, staring down at Harry in an attitude of sympathetic concern. "I'm well aware of your upbringing, alright? Granger's told me some—and Weasley, too. I know you've not—ever—had a moment to spare for it, alright? Or even the chance. Your Dursleys sound like complete drags—and fucking well petty and horrid and mean. So, yes, I do know you've not been encouraged to enjoy it; never have. I understand that—truly I do. But we Wizards take music for granted, Harry. No! More than that—we need it. It's part of us, our very lives. Just as all our illustrious history is, the old plays, pantos and skits included. And it's a part of yours, too, Harry. Your heritage, just as much as mine."

"And? So?" Harry blinks up at Draco suspiciously. "I know you've some sort of agenda here, Draco, so what is it? Tell me plain and simple and don't screw about with my head. What exactly _do _you want from me? What am I supposed to do here? Because I am not singing. Not aloud. I am not."

Draco grins. Drops a quick kiss to Harry's nose and pats his bum familiarly.

"No, no. Calm yourself. I want you, first and foremost, to listen. Use those ears of yours. Just listen—to anything you like, because we have it all, here." He glances about him, his face sliding into a remembered sadness. "Still intact, too. At great cost."

"Really? I'm sorry." Harry's eyes follow Draco's wandering, loving gaze, still a little disbelieving. He shrugs, not quite knowing what he's extending his sympathies for but knowing there's something. Something bad, and if Draco doesn't want to say, that's all right, too. "Still. Who'd ever have believed it?" he mutters, heroically struggling to take in floor-to-ceiling shelves of recordings, a panoply of every musical device known to man and then some—because some of the weirder ones were labelled 'Elven pipes,' 'Mermish lyre'—'Giantish drums'? Literally, there's far too much stuffed in this room. He's fair blown away by it all.

"S'alright," Draco replies softly. "Not your problem, Harry. But thanks."

"Mmm," Harry grins a little; he loves a Draco who has warm eyes, he does. "But? Really…_wow_," he murmurs, impressed yet again by the sheer array. "This is super; it's fantastic. But, Draco? It really _is _surprising. At least for me. I'd have never in a million years thought your parents were hiding this, you know? _Muggle_music?"

Draco shrugs a shoulder. The odd anguish that crossed his handsome face for a liquid fleeting moment returns, ever so briefly again. He blinks hard, twisting his jaw, and Harry sticks his hand on Draco's arm immediately, for no reason he could think of, except that he must.

"Muggle?" he repeats, a bit helplessly, because gods know they need change the bloody subject.

"Well, yes." He bobs his fair head, does Harry's tutor, and visibly gathers himself together in a blink. "Not Dark books, nor even those evil magical items all your bloody muckraking pals at the Ministry once swore up and down we had stashed everywhere. Just this. Instruments, recordings, scores and lyrics—all sorts, all eras, all genres. And a quiet place to enjoy it all, the music, _our _music. That's all."

"Hmm."

They fall to a shared quiet, till at last Harry sighs, signalling his extremely reluctant willingness in a little puff of breath.

"Music, eh? And me."

"Well naturally, Potter. Actors sing, you know? All the bloody time."

"Bother. Not this one. This one's an Auror, remember? And this is nothing but a lark Luna dreamed up."

"Tut, Potter! Bite your tongue!" Draco scowls readily. "And bugger your Ministry. They do you no favours, Harry."

Harry quirks his lips, reluctant but wanting Draco to stop looking so—so vaguely disappointed with him—and with the Ministry, of course, but this is really more all about him, as _Draco_ perceives him, and he isn't dummy enough not to know that's the case. Draco Malfoy expects better of Harry Potter than a mere flat refusal. Hah! For that matter, so does Harry! Where _is_his fabled Gryffindor courage, anyway? It is only something new to take on, a little fling—something unfamiliar. Like dancing had been, once, before Draco had taken him firmly in hand and marched him round the converted ballroom for three straight evenings in a row, grinding out 'One-two! One-two-three! One-two-and turn, Potter! Dip, now! And kick!" till they were both sick to death of the Blue Danube and Wizarding Polka both.

He'd got the hang of that, hadn't he? Mostly…yes, mostly.

"Right—and it's only listening you want of me, right? Nothing else; no singing chants or—or any weird things, like operetta? 'Cause your Frederic character's a real ponce's ponce, Draco, and I'm not about to play him, no matter what you and Hermione and bloody Luna may've cooked up between you. You can't pay me enough to make me do it. I do _not _sing, okay? Let's make sure that's clear, right up front. But." He ducks his chin and glances away, examining a very oddly-arranged tuba as if it utterly transfixed him. "I will try. A little." he swallows. "And alone. I'm not doing it before you, and don't ask me to, either."

Draco grins. Walks Harrybackward towards a leather console chair till the back sof his knees bang up against the seat and taps Harry's chest just hard enough to send him off-balance and tumbling down.

"Here—headphones. And a menu of sorts, to chose from." Harry's handed a lapful of things.

"Huh?"

"Well, properly it's a catalogue, but you can just point your wand at whatever you'd like to hear and say its name. The magic will do the rest."

"Oh, but—where? _Draco_?"

Because Draco is already by the funny little door, and he seems to be leaving.

He turns back with a little smile.

"It's alright. I'm just going to let my parents know we're down here. This place is most strongly warded—and I don't want that ancient Malfoy guardian hiding behind the pianola eating you up or anything. I'll be back straightaway—and I'll bring some food, alright? I bet you missed luncheon again, didn't you?"

Harry smiles in return—a real smile, the first since Draco has dragged him off willy-nilly by the elbow and landed him here, in what amounts to a great musical graveyard of sorts—because isn't that a Get the Knack album over there, fifth shelf up? And what about those Bing Crosby records? And…and yes! Vera Lynne, right? Even the Dursleys had had Vera Lynne!

"Right. I'll be, er…waiting."

"Good boy. Be right back, then."

"…Yes. Good."

When the blond head has ducked out (his attractively creased cheeks discreetly turned away…but not quite sufficiently to hide a very pleased and horribly smug grin), Harry sighs the sigh of Ages: a momentous sigh, for he _is_for it. He looks about him, at literally acres of music, and sighs again, feeling sorry for himself in advance.

He'll be singing before he knows it—he's sure of that, if nothing else. Draco is a stickler and Draco expects him to sing. Ergo, Harry would fetch up singing something, even if it wasn't the part of Frederic, reluctant pirate.

"Hmmmm," Harry sighs and mumbles a few more times, gradually growing yet more resigned to his eventual fate. There is some hope, though, still remaining. Maybe he'll be so awful at it his annoyingly persistent coach would change his mind, later. He could only hope.

It takes only a moment to pick out a classic song, something he's at least hummed along with, once. A tap of his wand to the catalogue has the first few bars beginning; the acoutics in the room are naturally awesome.

It takes but a moment more to open his mouth and croak along. Well...more warble. He's a terribly rusty, gusty untrained tenor and he can't quite recall all of the lyrics.

It's absolutely no surprise when they pop up before his very eyes to assist him, written in scrolling letters of gold in the empty air.

"Well…_shit_." Oh, he's doomed. Yes, he is. Malfoys will be so damnably sly!


End file.
